Fugitives
by mouse8
Summary: Amid a tragic explosion and a case of corruption Mark tries to clear his son's name. STORY COMPLETE. Thank you so much for your reviews!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Diagnosis Murder and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed for recreational and non-profit purposes. I promise to return them unhar...... OK, not permanently harmed.  
  
Rating: G  
  
Summary: Amid a tragic explosion and a case of corruption Mark tries to clear his son's name.  
  
Acknowledgement: This has been ten months in the writing and there were times that my enthusiasm waned to the point of surrender. Only Nonny's continued support and encouragement kept me going and enabled me to reach the end. Thanks, my friend! ****

  
  
Fugitives

Chapter 1  
  
Mark! It's so good to see you.  
  
Dr. Mark Sloan stood up at the approach of his dinner companion and returned her enthusiastic embrace before holding her at arm's length. Let me look at you. Wow! You are as beautiful as ever.  
  
This was no empty flattery. Even in her 50's, Elise Latiere was a very attractive woman, her fine bone structure and expressive gray eyes enhanced by the vivacity of her demeanour. However, Mark did not miss the shadows under her eyes and the lines of worry on her forehead that led him to suspect that this invitation to dinner had been motivated by more than a desire to renew an old acquaintanceship. He held her chair and helped her get comfortable at the table, then reseated himself. They amiably discussed the contents of the menu before placing an order, then relaxed back in their chairs to enjoy the ambience, reminisce about old times and catch up on news.  
  
Mark found himself thoroughly enjoying the evening. It had been a long time since he had had a date at a gourmet restaurant, usually preferring instead to experiment with exotic cooking in the comfort of his own home, or when too tired to cook, feasting on the ubiquitous ribs from BBQ Bobs. Here, the food was exquisite, the conversation comfortable and, although Mark could sometimes sense the effort behind Elise's light smile, it was easy for him to remember how much he'd always enjoyed her company.  
  
They had met at a hospital benefit dinner six months after the death of Mark's wife. Elise's husband was, typically, away on business, and they had gravitated together, two people lonely for companionship and instinctively responding to a shared pain. Elise proved to be a good listener, and Mark was able to talk about Katherine, rediscovering the good times he'd shared with his wife and not just reliving the more recent bad times. Perhaps Elise's greatest gift was her ability to find enjoyment in even the simplest activities, and her pleasure helped Mark to realise that his own life was far from over. However, he gradually realised that, in the self-absorption of grief, he had underestimated her vulnerability and that her feelings for him were straying from the platonic. She was married, and Mark wasn't ready for another relationship, and in these circumstances, he was being utterly unfair to both of them in continuing to see her. Feeling something of a heel, he had broken it off as gently as he could. He hadn't seen her again until this night.  
  
Elise finished her food before arranging her cutlery tidily on her plate. How's Steve? she asked casually.  
  
Mark's eyes lit up as he warmed to his favourite subject. He's doing great. He's a homicide lieutenant now. He started to tell her about the latest case that Steve had solved, but, while she was smiling at his obvious pride, a tension in her posture suggested that the information that his son was a policeman was not news to her and that she had introduced this topic for a purpose. Bringing his story to a rather abrupt conclusion, he leaned over and captured her hand in his.  
  
Please tell me what's wrong. Something is bothering you.  
  
At the gentleness of the request, tears sprang into her eyes, and she looked down at their joined hands in an attempt to steady herself. Mark didn't attempt to hurry her, allowing her to tell the story in her own way.  
  
Finally, she looked up hesitantly. I think Robert is in trouble, and I just don't know what to do. At Mark's nod of encouragement, she continued. I think it started a couple of years ago. We went through a really rough time financially. Robert lost a lot of money on the stock market, and we were even faced with the possibility of losing the house. He was angry and depressed all the time.....it was really hard. Then, out of the blue, he got another job, and suddenly everything changed. There was plenty of money again; in hindsight, too much money maybe. I don't know, he never discusses the finances with me. I was just pleased that he was in a better mood. It didn't occur to me how strange it was at the time. He was away frequently, but, even when he was home, there were never any company functions, any socialising with friends. Then, recently, he's been very stressed and.....almost scared. I'm afraid he's got involved in something illegal.  
  
Do you want me to ask Steve to check into it? Mark asked with concern.  
  
Her reaction was vehement and on the edge of panic. I don't want to get him into any trouble. He'd never forgive me if I got him arrested. Please promise me you won't say anything to Steve, not yet.  
  
After Mark's reluctant reassurance, she relaxed slightly and continued. I confronted him this afternoon, and he didn't deny anything, but he said that he was going to sort it out this evening and he'd explain everything to me in the morning. His boss has agreed to make some time to speak with him after a business meeting down at Pier 62, near the Vincent Thomas Bridge.  
  
Why did you want to meet with me? Mark didn't want to force the issue but felt he wasn't getting the full story.  
  
Elise met his eyes steadily, but uncertainty was reflected in their depths. I suppose I just wanted to know there was someone out there who knew, who cared. Someone I could turn to if needed.  
  
A safety net, Mark supplied, with a smile. I can certainly supply that. If you need _anything _more, please let me know.  
  
Thank you. Elise stood up and gave him a kiss on the cheek preparatory to departure. At the last moment, she hesitated and pulled a brown envelope out of her purse. Robert gave me this as he left. He said it was insurance'. Would you look after it for me? I'd feel safer if you kept it; it makes me nervous.  
  
Mark accepted the package, but her speech did nothing to reassure his concern, and again he urged her to accept Steve's help, recklessly pledging his son's discretion, but she was adamant in her refusal. He walked her to her car, and with a last hug, she got in and drove off.  
  
A troubled Mark drove home, more sure with every passing mile that he'd made a mistake in not insisting she accompany him home. The sight of Steve's car in the driveway reinforced his regret in promising Elise not to involve his son, for more reasons than one. He wanted to discuss the situation with Steve to solicit his opinion, and he didn't want to be in the position of keeping a secret from his son. At one time, even if he disliked being less than open with Steve, he could at least be reasonably assured of successful concealment if necessary. But now, either Mark had become transparent in his old age or Steve was taking night classes again, this time in mind reading, because if there was ever an Olympic medal in deciphering Mark Sloan, Steve was a shoo-in for the gold.  
  
Mark called out a greeting as he entered, the fragrant aroma of coffee reaching him. The slightly muffled response confirmed his impression that Steve was in the kitchen. He was polishing off the last piece of a large sandwich, and, since his mouth was fully occupied, his eyebrow spoke volumes as it crawled up his forehead at his first glimpse of Mark's attire. Steve swiveled in his chair to watch his father as Mark nonchalantly strolled to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. So intent was he on maintaining his facade of innocence, that he didn't see Steve move, and he almost dropped his drink as he turned and found his son beside him proffering a paper towel. He stared at it with a mixture of incomprehension and suspicion, until, with a smirk, Steve reached up and wiped a spot on his cheek, turning the towel to show him the result.  
  
Lipstick and ... He made a performance out of sniffing the air, ...perfume. Hot date, Dad?  
  
You should be a detective, Mark told his son dryly, sitting down at the table and attempting to ignore Steve as he dropped into a chair opposite, regarding him fixedly with a gleam in his eye that didn't bode well for the focus of his attention.  
  
So, anyone I know? Steve prompted him as the silence grew.  
  
Mark realised that Steve was only angling for information in revenge for the inordinate interest displayed by father and friends in his own love life, which Jesse had once uncharitably described as holding the appalling fascination of a train wreck. Mark's own inquisitiveness on the topic stemmed from a deep desire to see his son happily settled with a family of his own, but even he had to admit that his son's track record was less than stellar. His own personal theory was that Steve' innate protectiveness had a tendency to draw him to women with the proverbial broken wing, who often had their own agendas. Happy to see that his son could take the matter lightly, Mark played along with Steve's interrogation, a twinkle in his eye.  
  
You'll only get name, rank and serial number from me, he disclaimed dramatically.  
  
Steve sat back casually. Of course, you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to.  
  
Mark recognised the trump card he always played in a last ditch effort to extract information from his son and smiled, acknowledging the hit. OK, her name is Elise.  
  
Pulling out a notebook, Steve painstakingly wrote the name then, pen poised for more, looked up expectantly. I'll need her last name to run a background check on her.  
  
For a moment, Mark's sense of guilt over his evening activities led him to believe that his son was serious, then he burst out laughing.  
  
Steve grinned at his father, but his smile slipped as he glanced at his watch. I need to go. I'll get all the gory details later.  
  
Mark's own mood nosedived as he watched his son strap on his holster and check his gun before replacing it. It's late to be working. What's going on?  
  
I had a personal visit from the Chief this afternoon asking me to assist his Task Force in an arrest this evening. Steve's back was to his father as he slipped on his jacket, and Mark couldn't help but suspect that this was a move intended to conceal his son's own disquietude over the request.  
  
It sounds dangerous. Mark struggled to keep his tone neutral. Besides, I thought you had told the Chief that you weren't interested in his Task Force.  
  
Steve picked up on the anxiety shadowing his father's voice and turned round. It's a one time thing, Dad. Besides, when the Chief of Police asks you for a favour, it's hard to say no. On a lighter note he added -- Hey, I'm still hoping for a Captaincy one day.  
  
Mark perked up.  
  
Steve watched his father's hopeful face, a familiar regret tugging at his heart. He knew just how badly Mark wanted to see him safe behind a desk, and there were some days when the idea held some charm. But those days were few and far between.  
  
He didn't want to raise his father's hopes too far and tried to dismiss the subject with humour. One day, Dad. But you know how bad I am at paperwork.  
  
There's far more to being Captain than just paperwork, Mark insisted. You'd be a good leader.  
  
Knowing that his response was a disappointment to his father, and regretting raising the issue in the first place, Steve felt the need to justify the tension his job caused. You'd be a good administrator too, but you'd never be happy doing that job. You love working with patients.  
  
My patients don't try to kill me, Mark interrupted dryly. Or at least, not very often, he amended.  
  
I love working out in the field. I can really make a difference there. Steve shrugged, hoping the gesture would convey the eloquence he felt his words lacked.  
  
The tacit apology in his son's words pricked Mark's conscience, and the force of the realisation that he'd broken his own cardinal rule stopped him in his tracks and washed away the arguments he was marshaling. From early on, he had sworn to himself not to criticise his son's choice of career or allow a father's fears to increase the burden of an already difficult job. Yet, since the discovery that Jack Sloan, his own father, had been killed in the line of duty, an already-constant worry for Steve's safety had deepened into an omnipresent dread, fueled by past experience and what he admitted to himself was a totally irrational and superstitious fear of intergenerational fate.  
  
In an effort to reassure his son, Mark dredged up a smile that would have fooled anyone except for the one person for whom it was intended, and struggled for something supportive to say. Keep your head down, he offered.  
  
Sound strategic tactics, Dad. I'll keep it in mind. Steve was more than willing to accept the olive branch implied in the words.  
  
There are more nuggets of paternal wisdom where that came from. How about -- Go straight to Grandma's house and don't talk to strangers.  
  
It was a lame struggle at humour, but Steve was happy to chuckle in appreciation of the effort and gave his father a quick, one-armed hug.  
  
Don't wait up for me.  
  
Mark watched his tail lights disappear into the night before closing the door and gently banging his head on the solid wood with a soft whisper of -- The evening that had started so promisingly had soured irretrievably, and he was left with the disconsolate feeling that he had let down both his son and a good friend in a dismal tandem failure. He knew that Steve wouldn't see it that way, but Mark found it hard to forgive himself for creating a distraction when his son needed to concentrate solely on his job.  
  
His first mistake, Mark mused, had been in promising to keep information from Steve that could be a police matter. True, he'd done it before, in fact had even harboured an escaped prisoner in their home, but he'd concealed the truth only to protect his son. This was different and had put him on the defensive from the first.  
  
Mark put his coffee down and walked resolutely into his study, a decision made. He would look at Robert Latiere's insurance' and try to figure out how much trouble the man was in. As an accountant, the man could have uncovered anything from simple graft to high corruption. Mark hoped for Elise's and his own sake that it was the former. The brown envelope tore slightly as he opened it and, after emptying it of its contents, he threw it in the trash. It contained a small notebook, maybe seven by five inches, and it was with considerable curiosity that Mark opened it, flicking through its pages delicately as a frown of frustration deepened on his face. All it contained was numbers, interspersed occasionally with a few letters, neatly arranged in carefully written columns of varying quantities of digits. It was probably a code, but it could, more straightforwardly, be a form of accounting. However, without headings or other clues, it was inaccessible to the uninitiated.  
  
Although he couldn't decipher the meaning behind the numbers, the meticulous precision of the cramped writing spoke to him in muted tones of its gravity, and he couldn't ignore the warning. On impulse, he grabbed the telephone directory to find Elise's number, hoping to hear that Robert had returned and he was overreacting. However, although he let the phone ring for several minutes, it wasn't answered. On the theory that it was after midnight and that Elise might be in bed, he tried again, with no more success.  
  
Frustrated, Mark contemplated a visit to the Latiere house, but eventually he decided that his presence in the early hours of the morning might be awkward to explain to her husband, and he discarded the idea.  
  
Mark hadn't reached his distinguished age without learning how to exercise patience when no alternative presented itself, although it was never his favourite activity, and he much preferred action, a trait shared with his son. He decided to call Elise periodically while waiting up for Steve, although he couldn't suppress a grin at the thought of his son's reaction to that, especially considering his departing words. A hypothetical' discussion with Steve about a friend in trouble, however, would ease his conscience.  
  
He poured himself a second cup of coffee and settled in the comfortable chair in front of the TV, channel surfing in the hopes of finding something to distract him from his speculations. He settled eventually on an old black-and-white Cary Grant movie, but it had been a hard week at work, and it wasn't long before the remote slipped out of a nerveless hand and a soft snore emanated from the chair that had proved too snug for the intentions of its occupant.  
  
It was some time later that Mark was awoken, disoriented, with a start by knocking on the front door. A glance told him that it was around dawn, the pale, diluted light seeping in the room informing him that the sun had not yet made it over the mountains to the East.  
  
The knocking was repeated, reverberating and strident. It shook the last of the cobwebs from Mark's brain, turning them into tripwires, all sounding a shrill alarm. No good could come of such an abrupt, early-morning summons. He hurried to the door, fumbling with the locks and flinging it open. There were several cars outside with men in suits lounging against the vehicles, but Mark was not aware of anyone but the person on his doorstep - the Chief of Police. Masters had perfected a poker face, but now he looked grim, every line on his face dragged down as if by some obscure, personal force of gravity.  
  
It was the nervous swallow and the brief shift of the eyes that broke the news to Mark before a word was spoken. His heart stuttered arrythmically, then seemed to explode into a million pieces, causing a blazing trail of liquid fire to sear agonisingly through his veins, consuming all hope and strength and leaving behind the cold, gray ashes of two lives extinguished.  
  
Oh, God, no. Steve! 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
"Dr. Sloan, I regret to inform you that your son, Steve, was killed in the line of duty."  
  
The words, so cold, so formal, so unrelenting, and the soul-devouring despair they spawned, had haunted Mark's nightmares for so many years that, for a moment, he hoped it was all a dream, that he could wake up as he had many times before, trembling and exhausted, but that none of it would be real. He stood still, waiting, but the slight chill of the morning air on his face and the hardness of the door under his hand as it clenched spasmodically against the wood convinced him of the true story.  
  
He stumbled backwards, oblivious to the long arm Masters put out to assist him, to sit awkwardly on the stairs leading up to the main room. He strained to draw in a lungful of air, but his chest was suddenly too small, his ribs locked tight on something threatening to break loose.  
  
A small, analytical part of his mind told him he was in shock, but he merely gathered it round himself as a shield to ward off the pain. If he could just sit still enough, unmoving, unthinking, then he could elude the daggers of knowledge that surrounded him, waiting to stab him with the agony of awareness.  
  
The Chief sat down beside Mark, for a moment hating the responsibilities that accompanied his job. He knew the strength of the bond that linked father and son, and had always grudgingly admired Steve for his uncompromising loyalty to his father, even while occasionally resenting the actions that resulted. But now the bond had been brutally shredded, and he was concerned for Mark's well-being. He was gray-faced and rigid, no movement ascertainable, and his usually expressive eyes were oddly blank.  
  
Masters wished he could leave the doctor to his grief, but the knowledge that worse was to come denied him that opportunity. Of all the times he needed the doctor to be alert and at full mental capacity, this was the most crucial. "Dr. Sloan?" He shook the tense shoulder under his hand, not ungently.  
  
A pair of stricken eyes traveled slowly to meet his, gradually focusing. "Where......where did they take...him?" Mark's throat closed tightly, the last words coming out in a gasp.  
  
"Dr. Sloan." Masters spoke with force and precision, hoping it would allow his meaning to slice through Mark's dazed distress. "This is important; you must listen carefully. Last night, I sent my task force to a warehouse down by the Port. We had information from an impeccable source that the head of one of the largest organised crime families in the area would be receiving a large shipment of smuggled drugs. The tip seemed legitimate and an opportunity that would not soon be repeated. However, it must have been a trap. They were expecting us. Once they were inside, the warehouse exploded and everyone was killed - all my people. The only survivor was Tanis Archer who was outside the building and sheltered from the full force of the blast. She's been taken to Community General, but her injuries are severe, and she's not expected to survive. They were my people, Dr. Sloan; there on my orders."  
  
The Chief's own rage and grief showed clearly in his usually calm and somewhat sardonic voice, but Mark was unable to respond. Nothing mattered anymore, but at the same time emotions overwhelmed him, agony thrumming violently through his veins.  
  
"It was quick, they wouldn't have felt anything." Masters wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or the doctor.  
  
Mark nodded. It should have been a consolation and, in truth, he was relieved that his son hadn't suffered, but his grief was too intense, too consuming for him to take comfort in anything but the news that it had all been a big mistake and Steve would be coming home. Mark closed his eyes as fresh waves of anguish washed continually higher on the shores of his mind, carrying the flotsam and jetsam of his son's life and haphazardly depositing images and thoughts tumbled clean as driftwood for his inspection. His son wasn't coming home again, he would never get that captaincy, never enjoy children of his own. Mark would never work with his son again, play with him, laugh with him. The list of nevers stretched into a future dreary and bleak, devoid of posterity, and Mark's mind skittered away from awareness of that prospect.  
  
Masters could almost feel Mark collapsing in on himself, although he still sat taut and motionless.   
  
"Mark." He hoped the uncharacteristic use of the doctor's first name might break through his abstraction. "Do you have a lawyer?"  
  
"A lawyer?" Mark echoed in dazed incomprehension at the seeming non-sequitur.  
  
"The men outside are from Internal Affairs, it's their investigation now." The sour expression on his face intensified. "Although they may be technically under my command, I have little influence over their inquiries. They have a search warrant for your house."  
  
"Search warrant?" Mark was vaguely aware he was parroting stupidly, but nothing seemed to make sense, and it required more effort than he could summon to sort through the mystery. His mind felt torpid and was unable to encompass anything more than the enormity of his loss.  
  
Masters watched the dull befuddlement on Mark's face, realising he'd never seen the older man with that expression before. It increased a guilt he was unaccustomed to feeling. He was aware that Steve had only been at the warehouse as a personal favor for him and now, in return for his sacrifice, he was about to throw his father to the wolves. He wished he could do more to warn Mark but "trust no one" sounded too cryptic, and explanations would take too long, and he didn't think Mark could process them in his state of shock. Masters had lost his hand-picked team and needed an ally from outside his organisation, a civilian he could trust. It was ironic that Steve's death had deprived him not only of an excellent officer, but also of the one man who was in a position to assist. He doubted that Mark would be able to work through his grief and emerge from mourning quick enough to help.  
  
Masters knew that the time he had demanded to personally break the news of his son's death to Mark was nearly exhausted, and Internal Affairs would soon be at the door. He assisted Mark to his feet. "You need to go to the station with IA and answer some questions," he told him with gruff compassion.  
  
Mark suppressed the urge to repeat 'questions', and merely nodded as Masters ushered him to the door and delivered him into the hands of IA. He followed their clipped instructions almost as if he were in a hypnotic trance, obeying and observing in a eerie surreal calm even as internally a small voice gibbered an insane scream of denial. He was maneuvered into the back seat of a police car and sat staring out the window, seeing nothing of the streets they drove through to the station. The black hole of grief residing in his chest allowed no spark of interest or vitality to escape its gravitational pull. It consumed all his normal curiosity and intelligence, so it did not occur to him to question the reasons for IA's actions. He vaguely supposed that it concerned a case Steve was working on, but it seemed irrelevant under the circumstances.  
  
His last conversation with Steve replayed in an endless loop in his mind. A disbelief in its finality, in the idea that his beloved son could actually be gone, warred with a bone-deep regret that he hadn't done something differently -- prevented Steve from leaving or, at the very least, told him how very much he loved and respected him. He was aware that it was an exercise in cruel futility, but he seemed to lack the mental discipline necessary to control his wayward thoughts.  
  
Mark was accompanied into an unfamiliar, nondescript building and up to the second floor. He felt disconnected from the world around him, floating through a separate reality, a womb-like bubble containing only the amniotic fluid of pain, which deadened all external stimuli. But, as he entered the interrogation room, the familiarity of the setting punctured the illusion of remoteness. It looked so similar to other rooms in which he had often watched his son work that Steve's ghost seemed to haunt it. He felt as if he could no longer breathe, no longer remember how to suck oxygen into the stunned, starving tissues of his lungs. He sank into a chair, grateful for a few minutes of privacy as his escort left, but he was only alone for a few minutes before three dour-faced men entered. Two took the seats opposite Mark, while the other walked over to the bar-covered window and leaned against the wall staring through the glass.  
  
A heavy-set man with beetling eyebrows and a distinctly unfriendly expression introduced himself as Lieutenant Andrews and his companion as Lieutenant Marran. The tall man near the window was Captain Simmons. Andrews placed a tape recorder in the middle of the table and, after asking Mark if he minded, pressed the record button. "Dr. Sloan, would you mind telling us your movements yesterday evening?"  
  
It wasn't a question destined to promote easy discourse. Mark's mind was only too willing to be directed back to the night before, but to him it meant only the opportunity to relive his last interaction with his son and the realisation of his loss impacted anew, temporarily paralysing him.  
  
Andrews jumped on Mark's silence as a sign of intransigence, and his manner became even more antagonistic. "I suggest you cooperate, Doctor. Don't make matters worse for yourself."  
  
Sorrow bleeding from his soul, Mark sat motionless, unable to contemplate any way in which his life could be worse. Struggling with hopelessness, he obediently tried to cast his mind back beyond the immediacy of his son's death. "I went out to dinner with a friend," he remembered in a voice quiet and flat. It seemed a lifetime ago, when his world was still intact.  
  
"Was this the woman?" Andrews slapped down a photograph of Mark and Elise holding hands across the table at La Fleurie.  
  
The question was ridiculous, clearly they knew whom he'd been with and Mark's sluggish mind was kickstarted by the incongruity of the inquiry and the underlying puzzle of why IA would have photographed his date. Masters' warning stirred in his mind as he realised that this meeting was not about Steve. "What's going on?"  
  
"Please answer our question, Dr. Sloan. Who is this woman?" This time the other man seated across from Mark took control of the interrogation.   
  
"Her name is Elise Latiere. She's an old friend."   
  
"Please tell us the nature of your relationship with Mrs. Latiere."  
  
Mark stared at Marran, the embers of anger fanned by his obtuseness and the insensitivity of the interrogation at this time. He needed to be alone, to mourn in the privacy of his own home. "I just told you, she's an old friend." For the first time, there was an edge matching the weariness of his voice, but, even as he spoke, a possible explanation introduced itself, his mind making connections of its own volition. Most likely, Robert Latiere had been murdered and, presumed to be having an affair with his wife, Mark was now the chief suspect. But why had the police followed Elise to the restaurant and what was IA's involvement in this?  
  
Sensing a change in Mark's previously lacklustre demeanor, Andrews leaned forward. "The truth is, Dr. Sloan, that Elise was a go-between, isn't that right?"  
  
Mark's former conjecture evaporated, leaving behind a vacuum of comprehension. "Between what, between who? I have no idea what you're talking about."  
  
"Dr. Sloan, a man of your intelligence should realise that denial is pointless now. We know what's been going on."  
  
"Well, please enlighten me," Mark replied tightly. "Because I have no idea at all." His patience at this point was nonexistent, and it was only a prevailing apathy that prevented him from losing his temper.  
  
There was a sudden movement, and the man who had been staring disinterestedly out of the window approached the table. With a thick finger, he pressed the pause button on the tape recording, then loomed over Mark intimidatingly. His tone was soft, almost intimate. "Off the record, Doctor, did you sell out your son? Did you tell him there was a bomb, or did you send him out to die with your lover's husband?"  
  
The brutality of the unexpected verbal attack impacted cruelly, but the intent of the accusation was as incomprehensible as its meaning. How had the interview changed to involve Steve? The thrust of the charge, however, was unmistakable. Under different circumstances, the idea that Mark could have colluded in his son's death would have been ludicrous and laughable, but in the face of his loss, there was no humor in the unimaginable. Already foundering in the quicksand of grief, the mere idea that he could in any way have been involved in Steve's murder was enough to force Mark under, and his heart pounded heavily, aching as if a great weight were crushing it.  
  
"He's my son," he faltered, the defense self-explanatory to him. The devastation of loss in his eyes would have softened the hardest of hearts, but it scarcely deflected the Captain, merely changing his angle of attack.  
  
"Or was Lieutenant Sloan involved from the beginning. Was he a dirty cop?"  
  
In an instant, Mark was on his feet in defense of his son, the slur on Steve's reputation tipping the reservoir of grief over the fine line into a limitless depth of anger. "My son is the finest cop and the most honourable man I've ever known. If you EVER repeat that baseless slander, I will not only have your badge, I will sue you for every penny you own. Do you understand me?" The words were spat out in white-hot fury and bolstered by the considerable authority that Mark unconsciously carried. Even the hard-bitten Captain backed off slightly.  
  
"Please sit down, Dr. Sloan. If you and your son are as innocent as you claim, why are you obstructing a police investigation?"  
  
"I'm not obstructing anything. My son is dead." Mark swallowed down the mass of grief that the words dragged into his throat. "And none of his colleagues have had the courtesy to even explain what this is all about."  
  
"All right, Doctor." The Captain nodded to Andrews who placed another photograph on the table. "Last night Elise Latiere gave you a package. What was in it?"  
  
Mark looked up from the picture of the exchange to meet the Captain's eyes guilelessly. "Photographs." The lie was immediate and facile, as his instincts guided him quicker than reason.  
  
He expected to see skepticism in the eyes of his interrogator, but instead he noticed a flicker of emotion that was gone too quickly for Mark in his emotionally exhausted state to decipher.  
  
"Photographs of what?" Simmons demanded curtly.  
  
Mark shrugged. "Nothing important. Some old pictures of the two of us together."  
  
Simmons stared speculatively at Mark, then pulled out a cell phone and moved back to the window as he dialed. Mark didn't try to follow the conversation; it would take more effort than he was capable of at that moment. He was aware that he had just lied to a police officer and compounded that offense by concealing evidence, but the legal consequences of his actions didn't concern him. He sensed that the notebook was the key to discovering what had happened to Steve and to clearing his name if that proved necessary. Mark was going to find the person who killed his son. It was the only thing left to him, the only thing he could still do for Steve, and no one was going to stop him.  
  
Simmons returned to the table. "Where are the photographs?" Until that moment, Mark had given no thought to the search warrant Masters had presented. Luckily, his subconscious had presented him with a defensible lie.  
  
"Look in the third drawer down of the filing cabinet near the window of my study. They're in a folder near the back."  
  
Simmons relayed the directions, and they waited in silence for the result. It obviously left the Captain unconvinced since he leaned threateningly towards Mark. "That wasn't the envelope Elise Latiere gave you."  
  
"No," Mark agreed easily. "I placed the photos in with some others I had and threw the envelope away. Look in the trash can." The notebook seemed to be burning a hole in his jacket pocket, but he met Simmon's gaze openly, the numbness that still held his mind prisoner helping in the deception.  
  
With the confirmation of the existence of the photographs, Simmons seemed to accept that Mark had no more useful information and, after a few more desultory questions about his relationship with Elise, dismissed him with a warning to stay in town.  
  
Mark walked out of the room, his legs seeming to belong to someone else. The floor swayed beneath him like the deck of a ship, and he was unsure if he was going to throw up or fall down. He put out a hand to steady himself against the wall, but the movement was arrested by a call of, "Dr. Sloan?"  
  
He turned, weary beyond measure, and was surprised by the sight of a fresh-faced, young uniformed officer.  
  
"Dr. Sloan. I'm Fred Gillespie. The Chief asked me to make sure that you got home safely."  
  
Mark was vaguely appreciative of the consideration and allowed the youngster to guide him to a car, settling him in the back seat. He leaned back, eyes shut, not wanting to think, but needing the distraction from the vast, unendurable emptiness inside. Lethargically, his mind attempted to make sense of recent events, but instead of ideas making the intuitive leaps he was used to, it felt as if they were oozing stickily round his brain like boulders in molasses.  
  
The questions had first been about Elise, but IA wouldn't be interested in her; Steve must be their target. But what was the connection between Steve and Elise? The answer slid into his brain, bobbing and weaving past defenses that tried to deny the possibility.  
  
He leaned forward and cleared his throat, struggling to shape the question so sharp to its utterer that it threatened to gut him before he could even speak. "The warehouse where...." He couldn't finish the sentence, but the young officer understood the half-formed inquiry.  
  
"Pier 62, down by the Vincent Thomas Bridge," he supplied helpfully.  
  
The response echoed in Mark's mind, melding with another remembered voice saying exactly the same phrase "Pier 62, down by the Vincent Thomas Bridge." The words impaled him on the agony of guilt, leaving him to twist brokenly on their ramifications, a tormented refrain running through his mind. "What have I done, what have I done?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3   
  
Gillespie dropped Mark off at the Beach House, unaware of the depth of turmoil in his passenger. The officer was unfailingly polite and kind, but he was too young and convinced of his own immortality to be comfortable in the presence of grief.  
  
Mark let himself in at the front door, a cold draught of air entering with him. He noted abstractedly that IA had not bothered to lock up when they left. As he entered the front hall, Steve's absence from their shared home abruptly reasserted itself, and he froze, suddenly unsure what to do next. The large house seemed to shrink in on him, leaving him choking on claustrophobia, and the privacy that he had craved earlier manifested its true nature as crushing, unremitting loneliness that infiltrated every fibre of his being.  
  
Slowly, his whole body aching at the movement, he removed his jacket, hanging it up on a hook by the door. IA had simply dropped all the other coats in a heap on the floor subsequent to searching them and, after staring at them blankly for a moment, Mark clumsily started replacing them. The last one he picked up was Steve's leather jacket and, instead of rehanging it, he carried it through to the kitchen where he sank stiffly into a chair. He held the jacket limply in his hands, not focusing on it, or on anything in particular, but needing a tangible link to his son.  
  
Ingrained habit of a lifetime dammed the tears that might have contained some kind of release, instead creating a pool of anguish whose only escape was to wash back into a system already overloaded with grief. Besides, he wasn't sure he had the right any longer to shed tears that ultimately would have been for himself, for the emptiness inside and the loneliness ahead. Guilt had shattered his already fractured soul and continued to file raspingly on nerves that were exposed and raw from loss.  
  
He wasn't sure how to live with the feeling of accountability. His strong sense of personal responsibility had always been balanced by a limitless fund of common sense that kept undue guilt in abeyance. When the Sweeneys had blown up Community General, more than one unkind comment had suggested that Mark was to blame -- his obsessive and indiscreet obsession with the Sunnyview bomber making the hospital the natural target. Although the thought had occurred to Mark more than once, and he could see the merits of the argument, he never had any problem understanding that countless more people would have died if the Sweeneys hadn't been stopped and that he was in the best position to do it.  
  
This was different, and Mark didn't even try to marshal excuses for his actions. Steve had died while Mark concealed the information that could have saved him. In Mark's distraught mind, A led to B and, without a friend to provide a voice of reason to show him otherwise, he had almost convinced himself that Simmons' assessment was right - he was his son's murderer.  
  
Without Steve, he felt set adrift without an anchor and with the North Star vanished from the sky. He didn't know how long he sat there, turning the leather jacket mindlessly in his hands, grief and guilt fueling a downward spiral of despair, but a noise from outside finally broke through his torpor. He stood up shakily, looking for something to do as an antidote to feeling. IA had taken little care in their execution of the search warrant and his belongings lay haphazardly around. Cleaning would keep him busy, but silence echoed as resoundingly in the house as it did in his heart, and he recoiled at the idea of sorting through items that were poignant reminders of the life he had shared with his son.  
  
Suddenly, Mark heard the front door open, a heavy tread ascending the stairs, and his heart spun crazily with a hope that was almost immediately dashed as three large men entered the kitchen. He didn't know them, but his mind automatically identified them as cops, and his first assumption was that they had unfinished business connected to the search warrant. Resenting the repeated intrusions into his house at such a traumatic time, Mark started to rise in protest, but, to his astonishment, one of the men slammed him back into the chair while another snatched the jacket from his hands and started to go through the pockets. As the room darkened somewhat, Mark realised that the third had drawn down the blinds over the French windows.  
  
Mark had almost always been treated with respect by members of the force. He had earned the right with his deductive abilities and, if they engendered any resentment along the way, Steve's stalwart presence by his side prevented overt demonstrations of that hostility. He was totally unaccustomed to the bullying tactics being displayed, and his mouth gaped slightly ajar in shock. Before he could gather his wits, the largest of the men loomed menacingly over him, one hirsute hand resting on the back of Mark's chair.  
  
"You have something we want, Dr. Sloan. Give it to us and you won't get hurt."  
  
Mark wasn't easily frightened, and he rose to his feet ready to reciprocate with threats of his own, though his were more legal than physical in nature. However, before he could speak, a meaty fist impacted with his stomach, knocking the words out of his mouth along with the air from his lungs and sending him back, doubled-over, into his chair.  
  
The blow wasn't too hard; it was intended more to intimidate than debilitate, but it came as a profound shock. For some reason, unfathomable to his son and friends, Mark's gray hair or innate dignity seemed to leave him largely immune to the frequent violence that surrounded the apprehension of criminals. The only injury he'd recently sustained was a panicked punch from a fleeing felon, and that was a very different matter to the deliberate infliction of pain, and it forced Mark to reconsider his assumption that the intruders were cops.  
  
"Who are you?" he gasped as soon as he could pull enough oxygen into his lungs to frame the words.  
  
"Well, that's not really important, is it?" his assailant answered. "Last night, you got a package from Mrs. Latiere. Now you're going to give it to us."  
  
"It was just photographs." Mark decided he might as well be consistent in his lies, although he didn't think this group would prove as easy to hoodwink as IA had been. He was right, though this time he had the chance to brace himself before another blow landed, harder and slightly higher. The pain radiated through his midriff, but it was almost a welcome distraction from the mental agony that had consumed him earlier, and he still had the strange feeling that they were trying to minimise the damage and not leave too much evidence of the attack.  
  
As the wheezing emanating from his lungs eased, Mark was jerked upright to face his attacker. "It's not nice to lie to the police," the big man chided him. "Didn't your son tell you that? We know it wasn't photographs. Where's the notebook?"   
  
"It's at the hospital." Mark tried to look defeated, although inside a seething anger was starting to roil and smoke as he realised that these men were almost certainly involved in Steve's death. Their faces were burnt into his memory, and he swore with a violence that would have surprised his friends that he would make them pay for the part they played. The fury inside him was a fire so powerful that it incinerated everything except the desire for revenge, and he fed it with the pain of loss until it seemed to consume all the oxygen in his limbs, leaving him weak and trembling. He didn't try to hide this reaction, counting on it to bolster the image of the harmless old man he was trying to project.  
  
He struggled to keep the blaze out of his eyes as the large man grabbed his hair and jerked his head back, forcing Mark's face up to meet his. "I don't believe you," he said softly, but with an unmistakable threat. "We've had you under surveillance since you left the restaurant. You've not been anywhere near the hospital."  
  
"I gave it to Steve." Again the lie was instantaneous, preceding conscious thought, and it occurred to Mark that he could make a new career out of mendacity. He allowed no trace of doubt to show, and he was rewarded by a flicker of uncertainty in his interrogator's eyes before the man withdrew for a conference with his colleagues.  
  
Mark watched them huddle in a quiet, but clearly heated, argument, and a skitter of unease played over his nerves as again his internal conviction insisted that these men were cops. Mark knew cops; his father and his son had both carried a badge, and he was constantly working around police in one capacity or another. He could effortlessly recognise the unspoken deportment of self-confident vigilance as well as the distinctive jargon that distinguished a member of the force to those who know what to look for.  
  
Mark had always been slow to anger and quick to forgive, so to sustain a fury as consuming and all-pervading as the one he felt now was beyond his experience. However, if these men were cops, they had betrayed their badges, their oaths and, most importantly, his son, and the bitterness of that treachery choked him with a hatred that he had not known he was capable of possessing.  
  
As the group seemed to resolve their disagreement, Mark's interrogator, whom he had mentally dubbed 'Curly', returned to his side. "Get up," he ordered shortly.  
  
Feeling decidedly uncooperative, Mark stayed where he was. "No," he responded simply.  
  
Curly had obviously not expected rebellion, but rallied by pulling his gun, a regulation 9mm Beretta, Mark noted, brandishing it meaningfully.  
  
"Is that supposed to scare me?" Mark asked dryly. "Even you're not stupid enough to shoot me with your own gun right here."  
  
The man was clearly stung by the contempt in Mark's voice, and he half-raised his weapon. For a moment, Mark thought he'd pushed him too far, but met his furious gaze with defiance. It was one of the other men, 'Moe', who restrained Curly.  
  
"Al," he growled warningly. Mark felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction in forcing the revelation of a name, but the man's lack of concern over the slip led him to consider its implications. With a jolt of adrenaline, he realised that the most obvious explanation was that they knew he wouldn't live long enough for it to matter, but that didn't seem to be consistent with the care they had taken to not unduly injure him.  
  
Al grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head and jerked him to his feet. "You can walk or we'll drag you, your choice."  
  
In the mood Mark was in, further resistance had its attractions but, in the end, he decided there was nothing to gain by further defiance at this point. He shook off the hand restraining him. "How could I refuse such a gracious invitation."  
  
The sarcasm in his tone did little to conceal the depth of his hostility, but that response was minor compared to the incandescent fury that consumed him as he realised their destination - Steve's apartment. The presence of these men in his son's home was a profanity, their corruption desecrating his memory. However, as he entered the room, a hard shove pushing him to sit on the couch, it became hard to think about them, as he was hit by a sudden tidal wave of sensory information, every drop of which seemed to contain the essence of his son. It seeped into the cracks of his mind, washing out precious memories. The scent of his aftershave, the sight of his blue shirt, discarded yesterday and left on the floor, even the feel of the old sofa under his fingers conjured vivid images of Steve - vital and strong, smiling and affectionate.  
  
To Mark's horror, his vision blurred as tears forced themselves past all existing barriers, one acid, burning drop at a time, each forced out by the sheer pressure of the multitudes behind it. He fought to prevent them from spilling over, knowing he couldn't afford a show of personal weakness at this time, then, sensing that failure was imminent, he surrendered to the memories cascading through his mind. He knew he would pay for the indulgence later, but, for now, he allowed the comfort and familiarity of his son's possessions to soak into his consciousness until he could all but feel his son, solid and supportive beside him. Drawing strength from that spectral presence, he took a deep breath, his composure slowly returning and his mind clearing for the first time since Masters had appeared on his doorstep.  
  
Ignoring the ache in his midriff, Mark twisted round to follow the movements of his assailants, imbued with a new determination to sabotage their agenda. His eye fell on the gun Al was now carrying and, with a start of recognition, some pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. He now knew who these men were and what they intended for him. The gun was Steve's service revolver. He hadn't even seen it since Steve had surrendered his official weapon while suspended during the Eddie Gault case. At least one of these men must have been on the IA team that searched the house to have known where to find it.  
  
'Moe' approached again, holding his gun negligently in the air, a more subtle threat than Al's belligerence. "We'll give you one more chance, Doc. Where is the notebook?"  
  
"Or what?" Mark inquired pleasantly.  
  
"Then we would have to, regretfully, I'm sure, terminate.....our association." It was said with equal geniality, but the eyes, so dark as to be almost black, held a coldness that carried total conviction.  
  
"We both know you're planning to kill me anyway, so there's little incentive to cooperate here," Mark informed him.  
  
'Moe' didn't respond immediately; he sucked on his teeth while regarding Mark thoughtfully, obviously contemplating how much Mark had figured out.  
  
"You're not going to get away with it, you know," Mark continued conversationally. "No one who knows me will believe that I committed suicide."  
  
"Oh, I think that they will," 'Moe' returned confidently. "Everyone knows how tight you and the Lieutenant were. You get the bad news, you're upset and depressed, you go down to his apartment and blow your brains out with his back-up gun. It's simple. We get rid of a nuisance who knows too much, and no one will question a thing."  
  
Mark stared at him, repulsed by his casual narration of cold-blooded murder, and knowing in his heart that he was probably right. Jesse and Amanda might never really believe that he would take his own life, but, in the face of the evidence and under the circumstances, the doubt would be there. And, if the truth were to be told, as he had sat in the empty house earlier, contemplating a hollow, empty future without his son and blaming himself for the betrayal of trust in allowing it to happen, the temptation of ending a life that contained only loneliness and bitter regret had beckoned enticingly.  
  
Mark could not summon up any fear of death; it was too familiar. He'd always dreaded the inevitable effect it would have on his son, but that was no longer a factor. However, that didn't mean he wanted to die. Deep inside, despite his boundless amiability, Mark was a fighter, scrappy in the short term and steadfast in the long run; it was not in his nature to take the easy way out. Steve would have wanted him to keep going, and he wasn't about to let him down again. He would fight with every ounce of ingenuity he possessed and, even if he could not make much impact physically on three large, trained opponents, he could ensure that signs of a struggle ruled out the verdict of suicide.  
  
"If I'm found dead, copies of that notebook will be mailed to the Chief of Police and the media by tomorrow morning." Mark maintained eye contact, his only sign of emotion a slight smile that hinted at a greater knowledge of the proceedings than he really possessed.  
  
'Moe' sucked on his teeth again, a hint of doubt piercing his assurance momentarily then dissipating. "I think you're bluffing, Doc."  
  
Mark arched an eyebrow invitingly, "Try me."  
  
'Moe' dropped all pretense at civility. "Make this easy on yourself, Doc. Close your eyes and don't move."  
  
"I've got a better idea," Mark needled him. "Let's make it really look authentic. Give me the gun."  
  
'Moe' snorted. "I don't think so. Besides, there's only one bullet in it."  
  
Mark bared his teeth in a grim smile. "I can put that to good use, my friend."  
  
Mark sensed rather than saw Al moving into position behind him and, at the split second that 'Moe's' attention shifted, Mark bolted off the sofa and, swinging his fist in an impressive roundhouse left learned from his son, successfully targeted the other man's nose. 'Moe' took an involuntary step backwards, shouting with the unexpected pain, his hands flying to cradle his injured proboscis. Blood leaked from between his fingers to drip onto the floor, soaking indelibly into the carpet. Mark knew he couldn't escape the three men and didn't even try; his objective was more limited. He was determined to leave as much DNA evidence to identify his killers as possible. They could decided to shoot him at any time, but that would destroy any possibility of his death being ruled a suicide -- another victory, however Pyrrhic, for Mark.  
  
Three steps took Mark to Steve's cane, left leaning against a book case after recovery from the car accident which had damaged his knee. He grabbed the stick and swung it round with a wild swipe that deterred a close approach. Then he advanced, cane extended, wielding it rapier style, exultation in his heart at the opportunity to unleash his enmity and strike at the men whom, he was sure, had collaborated in the death of his son.  
  
His Zorro-inspired attack didn't succeed for long, despite his best efforts. One last swipe impacted on 'Larry's' forearm, but the back-hand strike was captured and his own arm seized in an expert hold. Undaunted, and still with an eye to posthumous vindication, Mark raked his nails down the man's face, knowing that skin under the fingernails was one of the best sources of a murderer's DNA. With a furious roar, Larry reflexively lashed out, catching Mark high on the cheekbone and knocking him to the floor. Although dazed, Mark struggled violently, and it took all three of the men, cursing obscenely, to drag him back to the couch. Mark took a savage satisfaction in the bruises acquired in the effort to restrain him. It was going to be hard to rule this a suicide. Al approached him again, gun in hand, and Mark almost laughed when he realised that they had either forgotten or never knew that he was left-handed and were intending to shoot him from the right. It would be the clincher for any competent coroner - he spared a moment to hope it wouldn't be Amanda.  
  
Although exhausted, he continued to struggle, drawing strength from a last-minute panic ignited by an atavistic sense of self-preservation, but he was helpless in the grip of the younger men. Praying that he would be reunited with his son after death, Mark braced himself for the end.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
Mark couldn't remember in which of his old black-and-white movies he'd heard the line, you don't hear the one that gets you, but then he would be hard pressed to remember his own name at the moment. It seemed to make perfect sense, anyway, so he was rather surprised at the cacophony of shots, crashes, curses, and groans that followed the initial discharge of a weapon. The gun had fired so close to his ear that only the volume of sound was appreciable, not the particulars. He was aware that the cruel hands that had brutally restrained him had relinquished their grasp, and, in his concussed and exhausted state, it occurred to him to wonder if he was now experiencing some bizarre, cosmic joke of an afterlife.  
  
His irrepressible curiosity stirred at the thought, and he looked around inquiringly. What he saw confirmed his impression that he must be dead, but he didn't find the idea the slightest bit distressing since paradise seemed to encompass the sort of justice he'd always hoped for from a higher power. Al and Moe' were both lying motionless on the floor, and Mark turned in time to see Steve, his own personal avenging angel, launch himself on Larry' and start pounding on him with both fists yelling something that sounded like, If you touch my father again, I'll kill you. Mark's vision was somewhat blurred, his hearing muffled and his mind as bleary as his eyes from the emotional and physical blows it had received during that drawn-out, traumatic day, and this all served to distance him from reality.  
  
It didn't occur to him to move, so he remained sitting, peering owlishly through a rapidly swelling eye, content merely to watch his son. His view was suddenly blocked by Moe' rising unsteadily to his feet, his gun pointing waveringly towards Steve's back and, annoyed that the enjoyment of his hallucination had been interrupted, Mark kicked him experimentally in the back of the knee, pleased when the gunman fell back down. To ensure that he stayed that way, Mark picked up the cane from where it had fallen near the couch and rapped him smartly on the head, noting his limp collapse with a sense of accomplishment. Then he resumed his observations. However, his movements had attracted Steve's attention and the younger Sloan looked up from Larry's' prone body and their eyes met.  
  
Mark saw Steve's lips move, but the ringing in his ears precluded him hearing the word, so he smiled reassuringly at the vision of his son, trying to convey all his love and appreciation in that wordless communication. In an instant, Steve was kneeling beside him, grasping his arms tightly. Dad, are you okay?  
  
Proximity helped the words fall like balm on his aching ears, the concern in the words soaking deeper to soothe his soul. But that was nothing compared to the electric jolt that seared through every nerve in his body at his son's touch, reanimating inert cells even if Mark still felt more like Frankenstein's monster than his normal self. The solid warmth of Steve's hands started to thaw the frozen wasteland inside and dispel the nightmare of loneliness that had wrapped him in a cloak of despair for the last twelve hours. He was vaguely aware that he hadn't responded to Steve's questions, but his vocal chords seemed paralysed by a comfortable inertia and a superstitious, almost subconscious, fear that the utterance of words would puncture the fabric of this reality and cast him back into the hell of despair from which he'd just emerged.  
  
Mark's uncharacteristic silence was worrying in the extreme for Steve; he'd seen his father weather so much, bending slightly before a storm, but always springing back with the resilience of a sapling. His tenacity didn't flow from lack of emotion, Steve knew how deeply he felt things, but he seemed to possess a core of strength that Steve had thought limitless. Yet, now he could see the profound shock deep within his blue eyes.  
  
Mark's face was drawn and pale and his extremities icy, so Steve shifted his grip to gently rub some warmth back into his hands. He wasn't sure if it was physical injuries or the trauma of recent events that was causing this strange dissociative state. God knows, his father had earned the reaction, with such a narrow escape from a violent death. Steve struggled to suppress the tempest of emotions that lurched sickeningly inside at the thought, anger, fear and guilt tumbled ferociously around each other, each fighting for supremacy.  
  
It had been too close, another minute and.....Steve's mind shied away abruptly from completion of the thought and anger flared again because he had not only failed his father by not protecting him from assault, but he was failing him again now by indulging in his own emotions when his father so clearly needed him.  
  
Steve was acutely aware of the danger they were both still in, every muscle remained tensed for immediate fight or flight, whichever would protect his father best. All his instincts insisted that he get Mark out of the house immediately, but he knew his father was not fit enough to travel just now, and he didn't know how to break through this odd fugue state that gripped Mark. Maybe his father would respond sufficiently to his commands to follow him to safely or react, at least on the surface, to their customary teasing, making light of the ordeal he had suffered, but both these options felt wrong. Through such methods, he might safeguard his father physically, but he could harm him and possibly the trust that hallmarked their relationship, on a more subtle level. He had to help Mark work through this himself. He stopped trying to analyse the situation and let his instincts take over.  
  
Relax, Dad. It's okay, they're not going to hurt you anymore. It was trite, but Steve was not used to the vulnerability his father was displaying.  
  
Mark tried to shake his head, but it moved only fractionally, and Steve wasn't sure whether he was disputing his statement or trying to indicate that something else was wrong.  
  
Give me a hint here, Dad, he pleaded ruefully. I'm not very good at this.  
  
Mark made two attempts to speak before his voice finally emerged in a hoarse whisper, as if he hadn't used it for weeks. I thought you were dead. Suddenly finding himself able to move, he grasped Steve's arms in an almost painfully tight grip, reassuring himself as to his son's solidity and the reality of his existence.  
  
With those few pained words, Steve saw with shocking clarity the ordeal his father had suffered since he'd seen him last. Although Mark had never been a demonstrative man, neither had he ever left Steve in any doubt that he was the centre of his father's world. Even when he was a child, during the long hours of absence demanded by Mark's career, Steve had felt that love. Their relationship had always been close and it had evolved gently as Steve grew, strengthened by shared experiences and interests until it had matured into the secure, unfailing friendship they both enjoyed now.  
  
Mark was the eye of his hurricane, a quiet refuge of unconditional support and acceptance in a world of violence and brutality, and Steve felt a wrenching empathy as he imagined his own reaction if their positions had been reversed. Mark had not only had to cope with the devastation of grief but also with a murderous attack with no hope of rescue, and yet he had never given up. It was no wonder reaction had set in. With his eyes, Steve acknowledged the distress Mark had suffered but also communicated his pride in his father's tenacity and survival, but with words he only addressed his father's concern for him.  
  
I'm fine, Dad, a little broiled at the edges maybe, but, as they say, reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated. He automatically reassured Mark but, as the adrenaline from the fight wore off, he was acutely conscious that fine' was close to being an outright lie; all his recent injuries were sending up a clamour for attention that was increasingly hard to ignore.  
  
As if he could read Steve's mind, or maybe just his body language, Mark focused on Steve with an effort, taking in the singed eyebrows and hair and the burn on the left side of his face traveling down his neck and disappearing under his collar. His gaze dropped lower and, with growing concern, noticed the large patch of blood soaking Steve's shirt. You're hurt, he said abruptly.  
  
Steve was instinctively starting to downplay the severity of his injuries in an effort to relieve his father of any worry when he noticed that Mark was suddenly looking more like his old self, alert and with renewed strength in his voice. He realised that Mark needed to feel useful to banish the feelings of helplessness and vulnerability that the events of the last day had generated, and maybe even to fuss over him a little. Delighted that his father was back, he gently extracted his hands and gave Mark a last pat on the knee. I'll tell you what, Dad. I'll let you examine me to your heart's content...... but only after we've got somewhere safe. Now, stay put while I grab a few things.  
  
He stood up and walked to the closet, trying to conceal how every movement sent jolts of pain radiating up his torso. He snatched up an old duffel bag and started stuffing it with a few necessary items and a change of clothes. Thankful that he was out of Mark's line of sight, he leaned wearily against a wall, needing a moment to marshal his waning resources and restore his splintered composure. However, at an alarmed shout of he straightened up abruptly and was unable to suppress a hiss of pain at the motion.  
  
What's wrong? He took a few quick steps to the doorway.  
  
Mark was no longer on the couch; his medical instincts aroused, he had been examining his three former assailants. He looked up, worry written clearly on his face. This one's dead. He gestured to Al.  
  
Steve's jaw tightened. I know, Dad. He had shot to kill, though it hadn't been exactly a conscious choice. Through the window, he had witnessed the blow that had decked his father, though the men inside the room had been too occupied to notice his impromptu jack-in-the-box performance. Fury catapulted him to the door. However, as he burst through, he had been unprepared for the horror awaiting him. Rage transmuted to terror as he saw the gun so close to his father's head and, instantly assessing the situation as he'd been trained to do, he fired to remove the threat to Mark as quickly and cleanly as he could. However, his objectivity in this situation was nonexistent and, for the first time ever, he couldn't honestly say he regretted the necessity of shooting, At some visceral level, he had wanted to kill the men who had brutalised and so casually attempted to murder his father. He battened down the storm of rage that attempted to surge free at the mere thought of what the men had intended for Mark.  
  
Mark had never shown by word or action that he was bothered by the violence his son had to occasionally employ in the course of his work. He trusted Steve not to exceed the level of force appropriate for any given situation. Yet, seeing his father's fierce dedication to the preservation of life, Steve couldn't help but wonder if it ever disturbed him. It certainly made for odd teamwork; Steve shooting the bad guys and Mark patching them up again.  
  
Mark moved over to Larry', and Steve winced internally. He knew he had lost control in the fight and it wasn't the first time he'd allowed anger at a threat to his father to overrule his professional discipline. However, unlike previous occasions, there had been no friends or fellow officers to pull him off. If Mark hadn't caught his eye at a crucial moment, he didn't know if he'd have stopped before killing the man. He actually felt a strange guilt that he hadn't exacted such a retribution, yet at the same time he knew that was wrong. He stared at the floor, afraid to see the condemnation he was sure would be on Mark's face.  
  
His father's voice was gentle, and he reluctantly met his gaze, feeling like an errant schoolboy again. But there was nothing except understanding and empathy on Mark's face. When I thought they had been involved in your death, I would have done the same thing if I was physically capable of it.  
  
At his father's absolution, a burden he hadn't fully fathomed dropped off Steve's shoulders and he relaxed, not quite comfortable with his actions, but dismissing the issue, for now, as irrelevant.  
  
Mark's concern now, however, was for the wider implications of the fight. This is a crime scene, an officer-involved shooting, we can't leave here. It would mean your badge.  
  
I'll plead diminished capacity, Steve retorted dryly. However, seeing his father was genuinely upset, he relented. We don't have any choice, Dad. Do you know who these people are?  
  
It was supposed to be a rhetorical question but, for once, Steve had underestimated his father and Mark's reply was prompt. IA unless I've missed my guess.  
  
Steve aimed a rueful smile in his father's direction, proud of his unerring intelligence, then he turned to point in turn to the bodies on the floor. That's Wilson, Cornwell and Nesbitt, all LA's finest. He paused, inviting Mark to follow his train of thought but, for once he didn't, blind to the violent twist in the road that was leading their lives in an alien direction. Steve continued, his voice betraying something of his agitation.  
  
Dad, three cops just tried to kill you in broad daylight in our own home! This wasn't an attempt at revenge or an isolated incident. I don't have time to explain the little I know, but there's something very dangerous going on and I have no idea how widespread this corruption is. It's their word against ours as to what actually went down here, and there are already doubts about the two of us. I don't know whom I can trust, and I can't take the chance that you'll be arrested and found later hanging from your shoelaces in a cell. All it would take was for one dirty cop to put you in a holding cell with some..... He broke off, aghast, knowing he didn't need to paint a graphic picture, Mark could fill in the blanks. I'm sorry, Dad, he continued more gently. I just can't and won't take that risk. Once we're somewhere safe, we can figure out what's going on here.  
  
Mark regarded him dubiously; his head still ached but his brain was no longer addled and, although he could appreciate the force of Steve's argument, he could also identify its flaws. If we leave now, we'll not only be effectively on the run, but we'll also leave the field clear for these guys to invent any story they please with no contradiction.  
  
Steve sighed. I didn't say it was a perfect plan, Dad, but at least we'll be alive and in a position to do some investigating on our own.  
  
Mark still wasn't convinced, but he was wavering. Someone had undoubtedly tried to kill not only him but Steve as well in the last 24 hours, and the evidence pointed to someone inside the police force. If they surrendered themselves to the authorities, they would be separated for questioning, and that might give the killer a free hand to try again. He knew IA was already investigating Steve, and his very survival when so many others had died would serve to increase existing suspicion. Moreover, it was the IA department itself that could be trusted the least. They didn't even have to try anything overt. Mark knew that any conviction for Steve would be tantamount to a death warrant - cops did not fare well in jail. Mark would do anything in his power to prevent that from happening, yet running away went against everything he believed, so he tried one last-ditch attempt to find a compromise.  
  
Why don't we go straight to the Chief and tell him what happened?  
  
Steve met his gaze levelly. What if he's involved?  
  
Mark automatically started to protest at the concept, but as the idea sank in and he considered Masters' role in recent events, he realised that it was a possibility that couldn't be discounted.  
  
Dad, we have to move now.  
  
Strangely enough, it wasn't the urgency behind Steve's words that secured his father's reluctant acquiescence, it was the indefinable air of pain and exhaustion that surrounded him, despite his obvious determination to put up a front of strength. If they called in the police now, even the best-case scenario would involve hours of interrogation and uproar, and Steve was in no condition to deal with that. Hopefully, he would eventually be taken to a hospital, but Mark knew his son well enough to realise that if Steve believed his father was in danger, there was no way he would rest no matter where he was.  
  
Let me get a few things together, he acceded. After checking on the two unconscious detectives to ensure their injuries placed them in no imminent danger, Mark moved to the stairs where Steve gestured to him to go first. His legs felt wobbly as he ascended, but he felt Steve's supportive presence behind him, and gratitude for the survival of what he believed lost forever bolstered his energy.  
  
His first goal was the well-stocked first-aid kit that he kept for just such a contingency, then he hurried to his room for some clothes and a small amount of cash hidden in a drawer for emergencies. When Mark returned to the kitchen, Steve was leaning against the counter, and Mark knew intuitively that his son had decided not to sit because if he relaxed, he'd never get to his feet again. The blinds were still drawn and, in the fading light, he couldn't read his son's expression, but there was something about his posture, a vulnerability bordering on defeat, that hit Mark with the same intensity as the earlier blows he'd suffered, and he drew an involuntary breath of distress before moving towards him.  
  
Just before he reached his side, Steve straightened with an uncharacteristic expletive on his lips.  
  
Mark exclaimed, alarmed by his son's sudden rigidity.  
  
Steve held up his hand for silence and, after a moment, Mark could hear what the younger man's sharp ears had already picked up - a siren.  
  
Time hung suspended as they both froze, only the increasing volume of the approaching siren marking the passing seconds. Mark's eyes met his son's, and he could read the indecision there, a lifetime of believing in the system warring with the betrayal and violence of the past day. It had to be Steve's decision, but Mark could feel both their lives hanging in the balance. If they left now, they would be safer, but their lives would change irrevocably. They would essentially become fugitives, on the run from the law with every man's hand against them. He waited and saw resolve hardening in his son's eyes.  
  
Let's go.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
  
"Downstairs, quickly!"  
  
The noise of the siren intensified steadily, and Mark wondered how a sound that he'd previously associated with hope and protection could so quickly have become inimical and menacing. The recent interview with Captain Simmons and the assassination attempt by the three rogue officers had shaken his faith in the police, and although he wasn't ready to tar all cops with the same brush of corruption, he knew that there was no way at present for them to identify which were involved in the crime ring or even how many rotten apples were included in the barrel.  
  
"My jacket," Mark exclaimed, suddenly remembering the one vital clue they possessed to decipher this mess. He ducked past Steve's restraining arm, knowing there was no time to explain, and ran to the door, jerking the jacket with enough force to break the piece of cloth from which it hung. He returned with his prize as a flashing blue light became visible through the frosted glass of the front door. The sound of their footsteps descending the stairs was masked by resonating knocks and stentorian demands for admission.  
  
"Is the front door unlocked?" Steve asked quietly.  
  
Mark nodded in response, slightly shamefaced as he remembered all the safety lectures he'd received from his son, but Steve didn't look even mildly censorious, and Mark realised that the last thing they wanted was for anyone to come round the back looking for another entrance. The door to Steve's apartment was shielded from above by the deck, and they could slip out unnoticed.  
  
Mark's heart was beating fast even though there was something vaguely farcical about the surreptitious exit from their own home. Steve slid a look round the corner, and Mark prayed no one would see them as his son was in no condition for another fight, though that wouldn't stop him from trying. Luckily, everything was clear, and Steve guided his father over the open area between the houses and around the neighbour's house. No shout of discovery followed them, and they slowed to a less suspicious pace. Two houses down, Steve steered them back towards the road and to an old, blue, Ford pick-up truck parked beside a palm tree. With a quick glance up and down PCH, he urged Mark into the passenger seat and hurried round to the driver's side.  
  
"Whose car is this?" Mark asked curiously. He hadn't given any thought to how Steve had arrived so fortuitously at the Beach House after his involvement in the massacre down by the docks.  
  
"I borrowed it earlier," Steve answered evasively as, with a grunt, he bent over and connected two wires that were dangling revealingly from under the dashboard.  
  
The engine spluttered to life almost drowning Mark's expostulation of, "Steven Michael Sloan, you swore to me you'd never hot-wire a car again." It was an absurd reaction under the circumstances, and Mark had to stifle a near-hysterical giggle at the timing of his automatic parental response.  
  
He caught an answering glimmer in Steve's eyes. "Ground me later, OK, Dad?" he replied solemnly, as he eased out into the meagre traffic, trying to be as inconspicuous as the roar of the ancient engine allowed.  
  
The humourous moment soon passed and, as Steve concentrated on driving towards the downtown area, he looked grim, the corners of his mouth pinched with pain.  
  
Mark felt some bitterness at the belief that Steve would have stayed to face the problem, to fight the corruption and accusations from inside the department, if his need to protect his father hadn't swayed the balance. Yet, as he sat, unable to tear his eyes from his son's face, the only fact that really seemed to matter was that Steve was alive. He held that knowledge close to his heart, allowing renewed energy and optimism to soak in and inspire him. They were together, and together they were greater than the sum of their parts, a lever and fulcrum capable of lifting any weight they set their minds to. On that comforting reflection, Mark closed his eyes, meaning only to rest them for a few minutes, but the accumulated stress of the past day caught up with him, and he soon dozed off.  
  
He stayed asleep until Steve parked the truck in front of a seedy motel in downtown LA and turned off the engine. The cessation of movement and sound woke him abruptly. It was now dark, and finding himself in a strange vehicle was momentarily disorienting. Casting a wild look around, he caught sight of Steve slumped over the steering wheel.   
  
"Steve... Steve!" Fear struck, although common sense told him that Steve had just parked the car so he couldn't be in too serious a condition.  
  
"I'm fine." Steve eased himself backwards in the seat, his right arm wrapped protectively around his ribs.  
  
Mark regarded his son with affectionate exasperation. "As a medical diagnosis, that would probably get you suspended by the Board."  
  
"Ah, but you should see my bedside manner," Steve retorted, but his voice lacked its usual vibrancy.  
  
The streetlights provided inadequate illumination for assessment, but Mark could see the frequent shivers that seized his son. He reached out and gently laid the backs of his fingers on Steve's cheek. "That's quite a fever you're working on," he observed, the tone neutral but his concern obvious anyway.  
  
Steve just nodded, too tired to attempt any kind of denial. "Look, Dad, I can't go in like this, I'm way too noticeable. You need to go in and book us a room. Give a fake name and just try to be as inconspicuous as possible." He paused, perusing what he could see of his father's face doubtfully. With his height, white hair and sporting a shiner to boot, Mark was anything but forgettable, but it was better than him going in and bleeding all over the floor. "Just try not to be too obvious," he repeated wearily.  
  
Mark slid out of the car, the light from the open door reflecting momentarily on Steve's face, ghastly and pale, speeding him on his way. He wanted nothing more than to see Steve settled in a room and to start treating whatever injuries he had. However, his step slowed as he neared the building. He knew that Steve had chosen this flea trap in the belief that no one would think to look for them here and that the proprietor wouldn't notice much about their clientele as long as they paid. But the truth was that Mark's clothes and appearance would make him stick out like a sore thumb.  
  
Inspiration struck as he saw a dirty brown paper bag beside an odorous dumpster. Cautiously, he picked it up, but the contents, as he suspected, consisted only of an empty bottle of alcohol. Tipping it upside down, a few drops rolled into his hand and, wrinkling his nose in disgust, he patted the liquid on his face and hands. Then, satisfied that the impromptu aftershave conveyed the impression he desired, he shuffled drunkenly into the motel office. He was careful not to appear too inebriated, just rather tipsy, but the black eye could certainly be explained by a bar brawl.  
  
"I would like to register for a room." Each word was clearly enunciated until 'register,' which dissolved in a confusion of syllables. The clerk never looked up from the magazine he was reading, but pushed a dog-eared book towards Mark.  
  
"Sign in here," he mumbled, clearly uninterested in the proceedings.  
  
Mark scrawled the first fictitious name and address that came to mind, but hesitated before writing down a car registration. He had no idea what the tags were for the vehicle Steve had stolen, but eventually wrote a plausible combination of letters and numbers with the reasoning that there was little chance of any motel employee checking cars for correlation with their records.  
  
He pushed the book back towards the clerk, pleased with the ease of the deception.  
  
"Single room?" The clerk reached back for a key.  
  
Mark hesitated, unprepared for the question and unsure how to answer it. Although registering under one name would help throw off anyone looking for them, Steve needed a bed, and he wasn't feeling like sleeping on the floor or any chair that might be available. He realised he'd waited too long to reply when the clerk finally glanced up at the clearly flustered man on the other side of the desk and jumped to the obvious conclusion.  
  
"Write her name too," he said, boredom evident in his voice.  
  
Heat rising to his cheeks at the realisation of what assumption would be drawn if he were seen entering his room with another man, Mark deliberately invented an androgynous name -- Dusty Brown. He received a key and directions to the room and escaped gratefully into the fresh air.  
  
As he pulled himself into the truck, Steve recoiled in disgust. "Dad! You smell like a distillery. What have you been doing?"  
  
Mark smiled mischievously. "Camouflage, my friend, camouflage." He grabbed a bag from near his feet. "I don't think I've ever felt like such a dirty old man before."  
  
It was unfortunate that their room was on the second floor. Mark hovered near Steve, wishing his son would lean on him a little to spare him the agony of his need to help. He knew Steve's determination to manage alone was largely motivated by his desire to remain inconspicuous, but, after his son had stumbled for the second time, Mark had had enough. He slipped Steve's arm round his shoulder for support, resisting the half-hearted attempts to shrug him off.  
  
"You're drunk," he informed Steve affably. "For that matter, so am I, so let's carouse. Sing something drunken."  
  
"What shall we do with the drunken sailor?" Steve suggested, willing to be distracted, but his voice was strained with the effort.  
  
"I was thinking of something less.....nautical. On second thoughts, I think our staggering and lurching should have any casual observer convinced."  
  
After a short breather at the top of the flight of stairs, they careened down the hall till they arrived at their room. Mark propped Steve against a wall as he unlocked the room and switched on the light. The room was utilitarian and the upholstery and curtains threadbare, but Mark took little interest in his surroundings as he helped Steve lower himself on the side of the double bed.  
  
Loathe to leave his son even for a minute, he nevertheless hurried down to get their other bags, then washed his face and cleaned his hands as best he could before proceeding with the examination.  
  
Steve was still sitting unmoving on the bed and Mark maneuvered him round into the light so he could see his injuries better. There was a sheen of sweat covering Steve's face, and Mark gently brushed his damp hair back to inspect the burn carefully. He was relieved to find that not only was it a superficial, first-degree burn with no blistering, but that his clothes seemed to have protected the rest of his body. Mark cleaned the burn and applied a topical anesthetic. Knowing that his son had been close to an explosion, he also quickly checked for primary blast injuries, but there was no sign of pulmonary barotrauma and the tympanic membranes in the ears did not seem to be ruptured. Everything indicated that Steve had not been inside the building when the bomb exploded and had escaped at least the initial blast relatively lightly.  
  
Steve sat passively through the exam, his eyes glazed with exhaustion, too tired to cooperate or protest.   
  
"How are you doing?" Mark asked, unused to his son's quiet compliance and more than slightly worried by it. "And don't tell me you're fine," he added sharply as Steve started to speak.  
  
Steve looked sheepish and closed his mouth again obediently. Mark started to unbutton Steve's shirt as his son's own fumbling efforts proved ineffective.  
  
"Now if you told me that you felt as if you'd gone three rounds with a grizzly, I'd believe you," Mark continued conversationally.  
  
"I feel like I've gone three rounds with a grizzly," Steve parroted obligingly, but he spoiled the effect by flinching as Mark inadvertently put pressure on the wrong place.  
  
"Sorry," Mark quickly glanced up in apology, his hands stilling momentarily then continuing more carefully. However, he froze altogether as he eased Steve's shirt open. His son's torso was liberally decorated with violently coloured contusions. Mark wasn't sure which had been received in the explosion and which, more recently, in the fight. He'd expected that, but he hadn't anticipated finding what looking like an old sweater tied tightly around Steve's lower ribs and fastened in a knot by the arms. It was heavy and soaked with blood. He'd been gauging the extent of his son's external injuries by the amount of blood adorning his shirt, but he hadn't realised that Steve had fashioned the make-shift bandage underneath.   
  
"What happened?" Mark asked, striving to keep his voice steady as he struggled to undo the knot without causing his son more pain.  
  
"I'm not sure. Either something hit me in the explosion or I hit something as I........" Steve's hand described an unsteady but vivid parabola through the air.  
  
The sweater finally fell away and the air hissed through Mark's teeth in a breath of sympathy at the jagged laceration gaping angrily across his son's ribs, still oozing blood. A portion of his mind automatically assessed the injury professionally: a secondary blast projectile wound with penetrating trauma, approximately five inches in length.  
  
"Damn it, you should be in a hospital, not in this germ-ridden flea pit!" The words came out more harshly than Mark intended, and he stood up abruptly, a flash of anger surging uncomfortably through him and impelling him into motion. He wasn't even sure at whom the anger was directed -- the men who'd injured his son, himself for allowing the wound to be untreated this long, or even at Steve for not taking his injury more seriously. It wasn't logical, but the dark mass of rage swirled feverishly, somehow intensifying through the lack of a clear target on which to detonate.  
  
Steve watched him with concern. "That's not an option at the moment, Dad. It's not that bad."  
  
It wasn't, and Mark had seen far worse, he'd even seen worse on Steve. His ribs had done their job of protecting the inner organs and, apart from a scar, there would be no permanent damage. The injury was messy and undeniably painful, but was not, given proper care, life-threatening. Steve had, after all, stayed on his feet with it for a whole day.  
  
Mark's anger drained as suddenly as it had arrived, but to his dismay, his eyes grew hot as tears threatened to fill the vacuum, and he turned away trying to hide his reaction, busying himself with the first-aid kit. The realisation that his son, injured as he was, bleeding and hurt, had not hesitated to tackle three large, armed men to protect him brought an apple-sized lump to his throat, and he couldn't have spoken just then if his life depended on it.  
  
Finally, he cleared his throat. "You could have been killed!" The thickness in his voice softened the accusation in the words, but it was still far from the expression of gratitude he wanted to articulate.  
  
"But I wasn't," Steve answered evenly and succinctly.  
  
Mark drew in a shaky breath, trying to control his volatile emotions. They were swooping from one extreme to another in a way he hadn't experienced since he was a teenager, delirious highs of joy plunging down sickeningly to troughs of despair, but mostly performing endless dizzying loops of confusion.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said ruefully, his shoulders sagging, the apology intended as much for his behaviour earlier at the house as it was for his currently off-kilter emotions.  
  
"It's OK, Dad, you're entitled." Steve searched for words that would banish his father's embarrassment, knowing how much Mark typically eschewed emotional displays. His eyes gleamed as brightly as sunshine reflecting off pristine snow, though pain and exhaustion showed in their depths. "You never cease to amaze me, you know. After everything you went through today, you never once gave up, never stopped fighting those bastards with everything you had. It's hardly surprising that now it's all over and we're both safe, you're experiencing the aftereffects of shock."  
  
Mark mulled over Steve's words, his son's pride and undiminished respect soothing the jagged edges of his turmoil and reaffirming his self-esteem, which, for once, had taken a battering.  
  
"Post traumatic stress? You know, I take back what I said about your medical diagnosis. That makes a lot of sense." It would explain not only his dissociative state earlier but also his current mood swings and perilous self-control. Feeling more settled with a label for his uncharacteristic behaviour, he returned to the matter that should have remained his first concern. "I need to clean and stitch that laceration. It's not going to be much fun for you, but I'm going to give you a local anaesthetic and an antibiotic while I'm at it."  
  
Kneeling on the floor, he untied Steve's shoes and removed them. "You know, your feet have grown since I last did this," he commented wryly.  
  
"You also used to sing me a song about a bunny with big ears when you tied my laces." Steve recalled with a grin.  
  
"Well, I'll spare you that today," his father promised.  
  
He helped Steve lie back on the bed, trying to ease the strain on the injured area. He felt a warm huff of breath against his arm as Steve limited his reaction to a harsh exhalation, determined to not make this any harder for his father than it had to be. However, the tight line of his lips and the rigidity of his muscles had already conveyed the true message to the older man. As he turned away to prepare the LET injection, Mark mentally lamented the unavailability of a sterile environment, convenient diagnostic equipment and, perhaps most of all, Jesse's expertise. There was a good reason why doctors didn't operate on family members. Mark knew his father's eye was magnifying a simple procedure into a major ordeal, but the idea of personally inflicting more pain, no matter how medically necessary, on his son after all he'd suffered that day was abhorrent.  
  
Striving for some professional detachment, he faced his son with a confident smile. "Try and relax," he advised automatically.  
  
"You get on the other side of that needle and then tell me to relax," Steve retorted, but his grin softened the complaint.  
  
"Well, I won't tell you it's not going to hurt, but it'll only be for a couple of minutes then you'll be too numb to feel anything but a sense of pressure." Mark sat down on the bed and slowly injected the anesthetic into the wound, relieved when the tension in the muscles under his hand relaxed as the drugs took effect. The worst was over, but Mark felt they could both use some distraction while he irrigated and debrided the laceration. It would be a long and painstaking task since blast injuries were often contaminated with dirt, clothing and secondary missiles driven deep into the tissue by the force of the explosion.  
  
"Do you feel up to telling me what happened at the warehouse?" he asked cautiously.  
  
Steve had his right arm thrown over his eyes, not particularly wanting to watch Mark at work, but not relishing the prospect of reliving the traumatic experiences of the previous night either. However, he knew they needed a full exchange of information and ideas to unravel the complex predicament in which they were snarled.  
  
"There's not a great deal to tell," Steve began, casting his mind back to events that already seemed buried under opaque layers of additional painful memories. "I met with the Task Force at HQ for a briefing by the Chief, but he wasn't particularly forthcoming with information. I swear he's got 'need to know' tattooed on his chest. All he told us was that an illegal shipment of weapons had recently been received and was being stored in a warehouse near the port. Some major figures from one of the crime families would be there inspecting them, and our job was to take the warehouse and arrest these men red-handed. Simple and straightforward."  
  
There was an edge of bitterness that Mark was unused to hearing in his son's voice, and he paused in his work to glance up, but Steve's face was turned away from him and mostly concealed under the sheltering arm. "It wasn't that simple, though," Mark prompted, knowing his son carried more than the easily discernible wounds he was working on, and that they too needed to be identified and treated.  
  
"Something was off from the start. I was there at the Chief's request, but my inclusion wasn't well-received. I put it down to inter-departmental jealousies at the time, but now I think there was more to it. The only person who was pleased to see me was Tanis." He broke off and turned towards Mark. "Tanis?"  
  
It was clear from his expression that he merely expected confirmation of her death, and Mark was pleased to be able to offer a modicum of hope.  
  
"She was the only survivor...I mean the only other survivor. But she was badly injured in the blast, and I haven't had the chance to follow up on her status."  
  
Steve nodded, a smile of cautious optimism briefly gracing his face. "She was outside with me. It's ironic that being partnered with the pariah might have saved her life. She told me that there were rumours flying around, but she wasn't too specific. I don't think she was supposed to say anything. When we reached the warehouse, we moved in in a standard two-by-two formation. McDaniels, the guy in charge, ordered Tanis and myself to stay outside and guard the rear. There were just two guards at the door, which probably should have made us suspicious from the start. In the dark, we were able to subdue and disarm them without any noise. Then the rest of the team went in."  
  
He stopped again, shifting restlessly, but stilled under the comforting hand that Mark placed on his shoulder. "Did it blow immediately?"  
  
The question was uttered softly, but seemed to echo in the quiet room as Steve didn't answer immediately. When he resumed his narrative, his voice was slow and more tentative. "No. Over the headphone we heard the usual sounds -- 'police, don't move', things like that. There must have been several people inside and they were frisked and handcuffed. Then, I think someone tried to open one of the boxes and...." His hands described the explosion when words seemed inadequate to the task.  
  
"The force of the blast blew me into the water and things get a little fuzzy after that. The next thing I remember, I was floating on something, I don't know if I landed on it or pulled myself up onto it, but it had drifted under the pier."  
  
For an instant, the dingy room was replaced by the dark, pungent wharf. He was lying on a wooden board, its uneven slats cutting cruelly into ribs already aching and, in shifting to relieve the agony of that pressure, he became aware that his legs were trailing in icy water. All sounds seemed curiously muffled but, over the sluggish beat of his heart, he could hear water slapping against wood and he could taste the brine through the copper tang of blood filling his mouth. The stench of decaying seaweed mixed with sewage and oil was overpowering and he started to retch helplessly, the heaving exacerbating the pain in his chest. He tried to sit up but his muscles refused to obey and.....  
  
"Steve...Steve!" Suddenly that image dissolved, and he was staring into his father's worried face as every muscle strained to rise. The intense flashback had taken him by surprise, and the emotional resonance lingered as he fished for an explanation that would satisfy and not alarm Mark. But, to his relief, his father didn't ask any questions, merely helping him settle back in the pillows.  
  
"I need to stitch this now; I'm using absorbable sutures for the deepest layer." He continued to talk softly as he worked, telling a story of the first time Steve had needed stitches as a child, and Steve's throat constricted as he realised that his father understood and was giving him the space he needed to regain his composure. The tension started to drain away, and he let the memories slip away with it for a while, concentrating only on his father's voice and the strange sensations left by the local anaesthetic. The ghostly tugs proved slightly nauseating when coupled with a mental picture of their cause, and Steve firmly steered his imagination onto a more constructive path.  
  
"I heard them talking," he said suddenly. "On the pier above me as I was lying in the water. They thought it was funny. The renowned task force walking into a trap and being massacred. They laughed and said something about that being the end of their investigation and they wouldn't be bothering anyone again. But they were cops, Dad. I heard them answer a call on their radios. They were cops!"  
  
Mark no longer needed to see his son's expression for corroboration of his state of mind, he had become adept at judging his emotions by the relative tension of the muscles under his hands. Now, he could feel him quiver with outrage and disbelief at this treachery. Steve wasn't naive; he knew that not every cop adhered as strictly to the belief in 'protect and serve' as he did, but this wasn't simple graft, this was wholesale murder - the ultimate betrayal of a fellow officer - and there was a touch of bewilderment mixed in with his fury at the depth of that perfidy.  
  
"We're going to stop them," Mark assured him with determination. "We'll find every one of them and see them convicted."  
  
"The damage is already done." Steve's voice was low and pained. "The reputation of the LAPD will sink even lower."  
  
_And you'll be in the middle of it again_, Mark thought sadly. This was beginning to look like a no-win situation for his son. If he cleared his own name but brought down other cops and the reputation of the department in the process, he would still be an outcast. However, there was plenty of time to surmount that obstacle when it became necessary. For now, there were more pressing matters. Steve started to speak again, and Mark could tell the memory disturbed him.  
  
"I tried to climb up to a place where I might be able to identify them, but I never caught more than a glimpse of shoes. I did, however, manage to clearly hear the next comment." He paused, obviously trying to recall the exact words. "One of them said something like, 'We've got the perfect scapegoat in Sloan's father' and the other replied, 'the Boss'll be happy to hear that he's out of the way.'  
  
"I realised that you were in trouble but, God, Dad." Steve levered himself onto an elbow. "I thought they were framing you for something. It never occurred to me that they would try to murder you in cold blood. I'm so sorry."  
  
Mark searched for a quick way to defuse his son's guilt trip and, characteristically, resorted to humour. "Are you apologising for saving my life?" he asked with a grin.  
  
"No!" Steve exclaimed, caught between amusement and irritation. "I should have been there, got there quicker."  
  
"I think you arrived at an extremely fortuitous time. If you hadn't, my..." Mark had been about to say, 'my brains would have been splattered all over your sofa', but decided at the last minute that that was an image neither of them needed. "..My life expectancy would have been a lot shorter," he finished lamely. "Now, lie back, you're ruining my stitches."  
  
Steve obeyed with snort. "Is that what you're doing? I thought you were playing tic-tac-toe down there."  
  
"Be nice, or I'll leave my watch or something in here," Mark threatened playfully.  
  
"Again!"  
  
Thankful that Steve still had the energy to angle for the last word, Mark let him have it, bending over his work to hide the smile on his face. He didn't attempt to nudge his son into completing his story, knowing the worst was over and that the rest would trickle out in time. He didn't have long to wait.  
  
"I tried to hear more, but they didn't say anything else interesting before moving away. After a time, I tried to climb up the pier, but it was too slippery, and I fell. I didn't want to attract the attention of the group on the pier, so I swam round to other wharf and managed to climb out. By that time, I was so cold and I wasn't thinking very clearly. I just wanted to get home. I did try calling from a phone box at one time, but there was no reply. It was taking too long so I um..... commandeered the truck."  
  
"You just have a whole wealth of euphemisms for that, don't you," Mark said in admiration.  
  
"Occupational hazard." Steve dismissed his sarcasm modestly. "As I was saying, I appropriated the truck and hightailed it home as fast as I could. I found the IA car outside the house and had a quick look through it, confiscating the gun I found in the glove compartment, since I'd lost mine in the dive. Lucky thing as it turns out. That's about it, you know the rest," he concluded dispassionately.  
  
"And about enough, too," Mark murmured.  
  
It was a skeleton report delivered concisely in even tones, revealing the prominent bones but stark and bleached of the original emotional overtones that must have accompanied the events. Mark was determined that Steve would flesh it out with more details at another time, but, for now, he needed sleep. He could sense the bruising weight of exhaustion pressing down on his son, stifling his spirit and leaching the color from his cheeks, replacing it with dark shadows under his eyes.  
  
Mark lightly taped a dressing over the repaired laceration, then quietly and efficiently checked for other injuries, ignoring the drowsy grumble that he was 'tickling'. He found several other contusions but nothing serious, and, finally satisfied, announced that he was finished. He pulled the covers up and found an unmarked spot on his son's shoulder to pat. "Get some sleep."  
  
"There's no time. We've got to figure out where we go from here." The determination in the words was sabotaged by a jaw-splitting yawn and drooping eyelids.  
  
"Nothing is going to change overnight," Mark responded firmly. "Good night, son."  
  
"'Night, Dad." The words were slurred with weariness, and it took only seconds for his body to relax into the boneless ease of sleep. He suddenly looked much younger, the tight lines in his face slackening, leaving only the laughter lines crinkling at the corner of his eyes.  
  
Mark moved to the bathroom to perform some basic ablutions, then turned out the light and got in on the other side of bed, careful not to jostle Steve in the small space they were sharing. His stomach rumbled, and he suddenly became aware that he hadn't eaten a thing all day. However, he had no intention of leaving his son and venturing out onto the streets at this time of night.  
  
The urge to sleep had temporarily receded, and he sat and watched his son by the muted orange glow that the street lights reflected into their room. The horror of believing that Steve was dead still lingered in his mind like a breath from hell, hot and fetid. This was the first chance he'd had to chase away the spectre of his death and luxuriate in the miracle of his renewed presence.  
  
Steve's hair was mussed and sticking up at odd angles. His mouth had fallen open slightly, small puffs of air escaping with each breath and the gentle rise and fall of his chest provided incontrovertible proof that he was alive - gloriously, vibrantly, indisputably alive.   
  
Mark's senses drank in the evidence of his son's continued existence, and that part of his soul that had shriveled and died at the loss of his son flourished and bloomed like a dessert flower blossoming in an unexpected spring rain. Strangely content considering their precarious position, he finally lay down and fell asleep with a smile on his face, savouring the gentle snoring from behind him, storing it in his memory like a precious gift.  
  
It was daylight when Mark awoke and, for a moment, he lay still, memories jostling for recognition in his head. Steve! He had meant to wake himself throughout the night to check on his son, but his exhausted body had had other plans. He turned towards Steve and his heartbeat stalled as not even a breath seemed to stir that motionless body. It felt like a lifetime before he caught an almost imperceptible susurration and a corresponding swell of the chest which allowed his own heartbeat to resume, albeit at an accelerated, adrenelin-induced rate.  
  
Sliding out of the sheets, he padded round to the other side of the bed, pausing to gently rest the backs of his fingers on Steve's forehead to check his temperature. Although there was still a slight fever, he was pleased to discover that it wasn't as high as the night before. With a last look at his sleeping son, Mark continued on his way into the bathroom, contemplating a relaxing and cleansing shower, but one glance behind the mildewed shower curtain changed his mind, and he made do with an unsatisfying wash at the sink.  
  
He had half-hoped that his activity would have awakened Steve, but his son hadn't moved, and Mark's stomach was now clamouring for attention. He didn't want his son to wake up alone, so he cast around for a distraction and turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. There was no cable, so Mark channel surfed the local stations, most of them showing commercials through various degrees of static, hoping to find some news. He succeeded beyond his wildest expectations and froze in shock as his son's face suddenly stared back at him from a relatively clear screen. The photograph of Steve had been taken of him in his dress blues at a commendation ceremony, and Mark was sure the irony was intentional as his gaze dropped automatically to read the caption under the picture.  
  
"Cop hero turns cop killer!"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
  
As Mark gazed in horror at the screen, too dismayed to listen to the low murmur of the commentary, a creak of the bedsprings behind him alerted him to Steve's return to consciousness. In a futile, but instinctive, effort to shield his son from the traducing of his reputation, Mark switched off the TV as he turned towards the bed. He caught a glimpse of Steve's shocked face before a dispassionate professional mask dropped into place.  
  
Mark scoured his mind for something to say that would offer comfort, but his own anger at the injustice made his words less than conciliatory. We should have stayed home and fought this.  
  
He only realised how accusatory his words sounded as he saw the brief flash of hurt in his son's eyes before Steve looked away, levering himself up against the pillows without attempting a reply.  
  
I'm sorry. Mark went over to sit on the edge of the bed. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I just hate this, it's so unfair. You did nothing wrong.  
  
It's okay, Dad. It's not important, Steve asserted stoically. The people who really matter won't believe it.  
  
That might be true, but it didn't really lessen the anguish of knowing that hundreds of thousands of people believed him to be a killer. Mark knew that his son was experiencing the same feelings of rage and frustration as he was, but that he was suppressing it for his father's sake.  
  
In an effort to defuse his own anger, Mark focused on the prosaic. How are you feeling? He saw the answer framed on his son's lips and continued in mock disgust. Yes, I know, you're fine.  
  
There was an answering twist of a smile as Steve scratched his chin thoughtfully. Actually, I'm hungry. I don't think I ate a thing yesterday.  
  
Mark brightened at the reassuring familiarity of the complaint. Now that's almost enough to convince me that you really are fine. Why don't I go and rustle up some breakfast?  
  
Steve's smile vanished abruptly. This isn't a nice neighbourhood, Dad, he cautioned. Wait for a minute, and I'll come with you.  
  
Oh no you won't. Mark hastily squashed that idea. You need to take it easy today. Give yourself time to heal. Besides, he added ruthlessly, seeing his son's mutinous expression, with your face blazoned all over the TV, it's too risky.  
  
Steve subsided in frustration. He hadn't considered the difficulties presented by this unexpected loss of anonymity. Well, it looks like I'm going to grow a beard for a disguise, he grumbled, again rubbing his scratchy face. A mischievous grin quirked the corners of his mouth. Maybe you should shave off your mustache to help disguise yourself.  
  
This beauty, Mark cried in mock outrage, twirling the ends of the mustache like a histrionic movie villain.   
  
Steve was relieved to see his father in a more relaxed mood than he had been the previous day, and capitulated on the breakfast issue. Go and get some food. Turn right as you leave the motel and you'll find a basic sort of deli two blocks further down. Just... be careful.  
  
And don't talk to strangers, Mark supplied helpfully.  
  
Steve's smile acknowledged the irony of role reversal but was touched with an edge of disgruntlement at his current inability to protect his father.  
  
Don't pout, Mark admonished him with a paternal twinkle in his eye.  
  
I'm a cop, Steve answered with great dignity. And cops don't pout, they scowl.  
  
And are always mature and thoughtful, Mark added gravely.  
  
I'm going to throw this pillow at you if you don't get out!  
  
But in a mature and thoughtful way, I'm sure.  
  
The pillow thudded against the door as Mark hastily closed it behind him, but the exclamation that followed it caused him to peek round the door remorsefully to check that his son hadn't pulled out any stitches in his hasty exertion. Steve waved him off with a broad grin on his face, and Mark left feeling happier for the foolishness.  
  
He acquired the food and paid for two more nights in the room without incident, and returned to find Steve watching the television, but he turned it off without comment at Mark's entrance. He'd washed and dressed, Mark noted with rising ire, though, since he hadn't specifically forbidden these actions, he chose not to carp. Steve looked pale around the mouth, but he seemed steady enough on his feet, so Mark merely placed the food on the table with a cheery encouragement to eat up.  
  
However, he soon noticed that, although Steve professed great hunger, he wasn't eating a great deal and seemed lost in thought. Watching his son carefully as he pushed the food listlessly around his plate, Mark glimpsed something in his expression that gave him some forewarning of the direction of this intense mental activity, and he was prepared with an appropriate rebuttal when Steve started his proposal with a tentative,   
  
  
  
Steve's jaw closed with an audible snap, and he glared at his father in exasperation. Just once, I'd like to able to finish a sentence without you pulling that telepathic act. Don't think that you know what I'm thinking because I've only just thought it myself.....I think!  
  
Mark stared back with consummate innocence. You were thinking that I should go and hide myself somewhere, maybe at Dora's, while you surrendered yourself to the authorities and tried to sort out this mess.  
  
Steve threw up his arms in disbelief, wincing as a sharp pain reminded him that he needed to keep his gesticulations to a minimum. What? I'm the only kid in the world who came with an instruction booklet?  
  
Mark chuckled at the mental image the words conjured up. I have sworn not to divulge the secrets of my psychic abilities, he intoned solemnly, spoiling the effect by waggling his eyebrows.  
  
You're trying to distract me, Steve accused, suddenly realising how far they'd drifted from the original point of the conversation.  
  
Looking at his father's resolute face, he decided that such an intimate knowledge of each other's mental processes could work both ways. For once in his life, Steve Sloan decided to play dirty and go straight for Mark's Achilles heel, with an appeal to his son's personal safety, knowing it was the argument most likely to succeed.  
  
Listen, Dad, I don't like this anymore than you do, but I can't concentrate on my own defense when I'm worried about you. I'll be watching out for you instead of looking over my shoulder for the next attack. He risked a glance at his father to find him gazing at him intently, wearing a benign and encouraging expression which seemed to say that once again he knew exactly what his son was attempting. Steve wished he could get up and pace the floor to escape from those penetrating eyes, but he didn't think that it would bolster his case if he hobbled around the room bent over and groaning as he had earlier when his father was out.  
  
He was useless at this sort of persuasion, he thought ruefully. Words were never his weapon of choice; he wielded them with no finesse. However, Mark was as adept with them as he was with a scalpel when he chose. He was now leaning towards Steve, the earnest look on his face the exact expression that his son had recently attempted to paste over his own. Steve yielded to the master.  
  
Steve, I knew how important my safety is to you, and I appreciate that, and I certainly don't want to be a burden to you, but you're in no condition to fight at the moment. Stealth has to be the watchword of the day, not confrontation. The truth is, we work best as a team, and it's going to take both of us to beat this thing. You know I can help.  
  
The blue of his eyes seemed to deepen to a cerulean reflection of the warm ocean, and Steve could see he was moving in for the kill, though he could also hear the unequivocal sincerity in the low timbre of the words. Yesterday, I thought you were dead. For 12 long, terrible hours, I thought I'd lost you. I never want to go through that again... I can't. He gave a slight, self-deprecating smile to lessen the emotion. I'm not sure my old ticker would take it. I can't sit somewhere safe, not knowing if you're hurt and need me or even if you're dead. The only saving grace of this whole mess is that we're in it together.  
  
Steve deflated like a popped balloon, completely disarmed. Instead of the blatant manipulation that he himself had attempted, his father convinced him of his point of view through his willingness to display emotional vulnerability. Mark belonged to a generation where men didn't discuss their feelings, and for all his amiability and good humour, Mark rarely deviated from this code. The strength of his love was conveyed not in words, but in the worry in his eyes when Steve was hurt, in his willingness to immerse himself in his son's interests and in the little touches of consideration around their shared house. For him to verbally acknowledge his distress revealed the depth of his certainty that they should stay together, and Steve couldn't ignore that appeal.  
  
He relaxed back into his chair. So what do _we _do next? A slight emphasis on the plural pronoun signaled his surrender, but when he looked at this father there was no triumph in his expression, only a slight apology.  
  
I tell you about my date with Elise, Mark stated reluctantly.  
  
Steve raised an eyebrow at the seeming non-sequitur, but, noting the grim set of Mark's face, forbore to tease him about his romantic conquests.  
  
Mark tried to gather his splintered thoughts into a coherent whole. It was hard to know where to start. There were topics long-postponed that he needed to broach with his son, but now was not the time. There were also confessions he needed to make that he was dreading.  
  
Elise's last name is Latiere, he announced at last.  
  
Latiere? As in the wife of Robert Latiere?  
  
At Mark's nod of confirmation, Steve started to laugh. And I thought I had the world's worst taste in women. Maybe I inherited that gene from you after all. Leaving aside the fact that your date was with a married woman, do you have any idea who Robert Latiere is?  
  
I've pieced together a good guess in the last 24 hours, but not specifically, no, Mark admitted in a low voice.  
  
Remember our good friend, Ian Trainer? Well, when he was killed, guess who became the new accountant for the Ganza crime organisation.  
  
Robert Latiere, Mark supplied miserably, the full picture lighting up in glorious Technicolor in his head.  
  
He was one of the men we were supposed to arrest last night, and you were having dinner with his wife. Well, that explains the scapegoat remarks. Seeing that his father was looking genuinely upset, Steve motioned to him to continue with his story.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Mark recounted his conversation with Elise as closely as he could recall it. Watching his son's face, he saw the moment comprehension dawned, and he fell silent, unable to speak past the constriction that seized his throat as he waited for Steve's condemnation.  
  
Steve dropped his gaze to the table, needing a few minutes to sort through the implications of his father's story. He felt a moment's anger at the realisation that Mark's foreknowledge of a meeting on the pier could have prevented the deaths of many good officers, but that negative emotion was swept aside by the very real anguish in his father's eyes. Mark didn't need recriminations from him; he had almost certainly already flayed himself more brutally than the omission had deserved. His father's earlier traumatised state was now easier to understand. Guilt was a cancer that cruelly devoured a man from the inside out.  
  
He'd waited too long to speak, and Mark's pained voice broke through his reverie. I'm so sorry. If I'd just had the sense to discuss this with you before you left that night, I could have stopped any of this from happening in the first place -- the task force would still be alive and you...  
  
Steve cut in sharply, the impact of Mark's remorse resonating painfully between them and cutting him to the quick. He continued more gently. Don't do this to yourself. It wasn't your fault. You had absolutely no way of knowing what was going to happen. You kept a promise to a friend because you are an honourable man, but if you had had any reason to suspect that what seemed like a simple meeting between an accountant and his boss would have wider ramifications, you would have told me. So don't beat yourself up about this, okay? He reached over and grasped his father's knee, hoping the comfort of touch would compensate for any inadequacy in the words.  
  
Steve's forgiveness surged through Mark's veins with cleansing force, washing away the clogging, decaying crust of guilt and allowing the normal flow of reason to resume. Even if he wasn't quite ready to forgive himself, Mark could appreciate the common sense of Steve's argument and let the matter rest. He continued his story feeling inexpressibly lighter. Knowing he was approaching another emotional minefield, he tried to skate lightly round his experiences with IA, both the interview with Simmons and the later visit by the three rogue officers, but even still, he could feel the palpable tension roiling from his son. Steve didn't say anything, but the heat of the incandescent fury in his eyes would have melted pure steel, and Mark knew from experience that, when angry, his son expressed himself better with actions than words, an outlet currently denied him.  
  
However, his satisfaction and pride were equally in evidence when Mark described the measures he took to deprive IA of the notebook, and as Mark brought his narrative to a conclusion, he fished out the ledger, and soon two heads, one white and one dark blonde, were bent intently over the carefully inscribed entries.  
  
It didn't take long before Steve's vision was glazing over and an incipient headache was building behind his eyes. However, a quick glance at his father showed Mark in his element, his eyes sparkling as he pitted his wits against a new puzzle.  
  
Do you really think this is written in a breakable code? Steve asked dubiously.  
  
Mark declared with confidence. Robert Latiere described this as his insurance. If it were unintelligible to anyone but him, it would do little good. No, it's not supposed to be understood at a casual glance, but it can be decoded. Look, this first column of six numbers is clearly dates.  
  
I thought so too, at first, but some don't seem to fit. Look at this one: 231102'. There aren't 23 months in the year.  
  
I know, but Robert was first generation American. His family immigrated here when he was a teenager, and in most of Europe, they reverse the order of the day and the month, so that would make it the 23rd of November.  
  
Steve looked at the book with renewed interest. That certainly makes more sense; then all the dates would fall within the last two years -- since he's been working for the Ganza organisation.  
  
Mark frowned. I've never understood how that worked. Now Ross Canin is in charge of the Ganza organisation, why doesn't he prevent the smuggling of drugs and the violence and misery associated with such crimes?  
  
Steve sighed and shifted uncomfortably in the sagging chair. It works along the lines of the devil you know'. If we closed down that den of thieves, another would just move into the vacuum it left and we'd just have to start again from scratch. And don't forget, Ross Canin's true identity is one of the most closely guarded secrets in the PD. Only a small handful of people know who he really is. Since I rejected the Chief's offer of a job there, I'm not exactly privy to the ins and outs of their operations, but I know the Task Force has had unprecedented success the last two years in closing down major parts of the other Californian crime organisations and seizing major shipments of drugs and guns, so I'm sure Canin is passing on useful information and also ensuring that the drugs that do reach the streets are at least clean.  
  
It still seems bizarre to me, Mark commented, a distracted frown on his face as he contemplated the ramifications of such a system. Did I tell you how relieved I was that you didn't accept the job with the Task Force? It always seemed to me that it would have required too great a compromise of integrity, and I'd hate to see you put in that position.  
  
I said more or less the same thing to the Chief... although not in quite the same words. Questioning his integrity, no matter how indirectly, would not have been well received.  
  
That reminded Mark of a question he'd been meaning to ask for a while. Do you really think that the Chief is involved in this corruption?  
  
No. I'd be willing to stake my life he isn't, but I'll be damned if I'm going to stake yours, Steve stated with determination.  
  
I think he was trying to warn me when he came to the house, but I didn't really hear anything beyond the fact that you were dead. Mark's voice thickened slightly in remembrance.  
  
Before hanging you out to dry, Steve declared, his voice suddenly harsh and strident, and Mark could tell that, whether Masters was guilty or not, there would be a reckoning between the enigmatic police chief and his son before long. He just hoped that Steve didn't throw away his career if they managed to preserve it.  
  
He directed Steve's attention back to the notebook, hoping to divert his anger into a more productive line of thought.  
  
The next column is just one digit, and I would assume that it's just some sort of categorisation, maybe drugs, prostitution, weapons, some sort of business dealing. But look, this is the column that interests me the most, it's the only one on this page with both numbers and letters so it's not just accounting. I think that it's the key. He jabbed an emphatic finger at the paper.  
  
But what is it, exactly? Steve asked, wanting something more concrete with which to work.  
  
Mark was unable to give him more than a nebulous hope. Some possibilities have occurred to me, but I need to get to a computer and do some research.  
  
That's a slight problem, isn't it? Steve cast a disparaging look around the room. We're a bit short on technology right now. In fact, we're short on just about everything. To get back to practicalities here, there's a lot of things we need and few resources with which to get em. Most importantly, I'm driving a hot car, which isn't the smartest move for a fugitive.  
  
Mark stretched, working the kinks out of his neck. Jesse and Amanda will help us, he stated confidently. We have to let them know we're alright anyway, they must be worried stiff.  
  
Steve demurred. That's the first thing they'll expect us to do. You know they'll be watched, and it wouldn't surprise me if their phones are bugged too. As much as we need their help, there's no way we can safely contact them.  
  
Mark turned back to his son, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Yes there is. I've got a plan!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
  
As Mark rang the bell on the bright blue door, Steve rocked back and forth on his heels behind him, casting nervous glances past the gaudy decorations in the garden to the neighbours' houses visible on either side. He had initially vetoed the plan that Mark had proposed, believing that it contained an unnecessary risk of exposure, but, with his customary eloquence, Mark had convinced him not only of its necessity but also of its relative prudence.  
  
Marshmallow Sloan, he muttered darkly, as he reflected on his status as a pushover. His only consolation was that Mark alone possessed this unsettling ability to persuade him into a course of action against his better judgment, and he knew that his willingness to defer to his father's wishes stemmed not from spineless diffidence, but from an immense trust in Mark's instincts.  
  
From the amused glance his father cast in his direction, he realised that Mark had heard his sotto voce remark, so, to forestall any response, Steve brightly announced, Nobody home, we'd better go.  
  
To his annoyance, the rattle of the door handle immediately proved him wrong. Lucas Blanchard's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Mark on his doorstep, but he was opening the door wider in welcome when Steve's additional presence registered. Immediately, distrust with a faint undercurrent of fear replaced his pleasant smile, but, after an awkward hesitation, he stepped aside with the curt invitation, Come in.  
  
Mark risked a quick glance at his son and wasn't surprised to see the shuttered look that screened all emotions. Although Steve had to deal with suspicion on almost a daily basis, it had always been directed towards his profession, not his character, and Mark knew it must chafe on his nerves to be confronted so forcefully with the evidence of his changed status within the community.  
  
Lucas followed them into the living room and gestured for them to sit down. Mark and Steve chose the sofa in an unconscious gesture of solidarity, and Lucas perched uncomfortably on the edge of a plush armchair.  
  
You're the last person I expected to see, Mark. His gaze skittered towards Steve then slid uncomfortably away.  
  
Mark was vibrating in sympathy with the tensions emanating from both sides, instinctively understanding his son's frustration and also, abruptly, appreciating the apprehension his friend was suffering. He had promised Steve that Lucas would not turn them in, that, on the contrary, he would be pleased to help them. Lucas credited Mark with saving his wife's life, and the two had forged a friendship based on a mutual fascination with magic tricks. However, while still sure of his own welcome, Mark hadn't thought to look at Steve's arrival from an outside perspective. Having a wanted killer in your living room, while old hat to Mark, would be disconcerting to most. For the first time, he wished his son wasn't so physically intimidating.  
  
I'm sorry to impose, Lucas, Mark began apologetically. I know we've put you in a difficult position, but I really need your help. Please understand that we're not guilty of the things of which we've been accused.  
  
Lucas still looked wary. Then he didn't shoot that cop? He nodded his head towards Steve, still avoiding eye contact with him.  
  
Mark hesitated, and Steve, seeing his father was unsure how to best answer, and tired of feeling like he was suffering from an embarrassing personal disease, jumped in, stating baldly and rather unhelpfully, Yes I did.  
  
Mark shot an exasperated look at his irritating offspring. Yes, he shot him, he admitted. However, he did it to save my life. The three officers were trying to murder me and would have succeeded if Steve hadn't intervened.  
  
That's the truth? Lucas demanded incredulously.  
  
That's the truth, Mark averred, candor clear and unflinching in his eyes.  
  
Lucas finally relaxed, looking squarely at Steve for the first time. There's a warrant out for your arrest. You're considered armed and dangerous.  
  
Steve replied with a glint of humour, there's some truth to that, but only to those who try and hurt my father.  
  
Lucas wasn't sure if that was intended to be a warning, but it was a response he could respect. They haven't issued a warrant for him yet, although he's wanted for questioning. The police seem unsure if he is involved in something or if you've kidnapped him and are holding him against his will.  
  
That's absurd, Mark burst out, realising that such a suspicion would make it more likely that an officer, even an honest one, would use force in apprehending his son.  
  
I can see that now, though I did wonder. Anyway, what can I do to help you?  
  
Mark revealed his idea, and a broad grin spread over Lucas' dark face. Come with me. He led them downstairs, explaining that his wife was visiting her sister and catching Mark up on some family news.  
  
The basement wasn't like any Steve had ever seen before, and he looked around curiously as the bright lighting illuminated racks of odd clothes and outlandish costumes that lined the room. Lucas sat Mark in front of a large mirror and started explaining the lengthy procedure which would ensue.  
  
I'm going to use a sponge for even coverage and apply a base slightly lighter than your natural skin tone, since aged complexions tend to be on the pale side.  
  
Steve sank gratefully into the one armchair the room possessed. His ribs were aching unmercifully and, despite a good night's sleep, exhaustion was again smothering his mind in a dull blanket of weariness. Leaning back, he watched the two older men with some amusement. His father's boyish enthusiasm was infectious, and Steve loved the enjoyment that Mark could derive from even the simplest activities. It was one of his most endearing qualities. Feeling oddly safe in this house, it wasn't long before Steve's eyes closed and soft snores emanated from his corner.  
  
He looks a trifle pale, Lucas observed casually. Is he alright?  
  
Mark cast a fond but concerned look at his sleeping son. He was injured, but he'll be fine. He smiled to himself as he echoed Steve's favourite word. Of course, that didn't stop him from saving my life; he doesn't know his own limitations sometimes. This is so hard for him; he's a good man.  
  
He glanced up at Lucas, suddenly needing to convince him of his son's innocence. He's also a good cop, and I couldn't ask for a better son. Cold determination changed the amiable contours of his face. I'm going to clear his name if it's the last thing I do.  
  
Well, try to make sure it isn't the last thing, Lucas cautioned. I don't think he'd take that too well. Now hold still. I'm going to use brownish red as the shadow colour and add some wrinkles.  
  
Steve was dreaming of numbers buzzing around him like bees despite his best efforts to bat them away, when he was awakened by a bump to his knee. He looked up blearily and recoiled instinctively, blinking rapidly in an effort to bring the apparition confronting him into clearer focus.  
  
he queried, uncertainly, finding nothing recognisable in the brown eyes, lank, straggly, gray hair and hollow cheeks in front of him and vaguely suspecting a practical joke.  
  
What's that, sonny? The reedy, quavering tones were unlike Mark's yet, at the same time, there was a familiarity in the timbre that Steve had heard nearly every day of his life and he couldn't mistake it.  
  
he said, with relief this time. He inspected his father critically. Well, that's quite an improvement, he teased mendaciously. You should come here for a makeover more often.  
  
Lucas gave a shout of laughter, but Mark stayed in character, rapping Steve's leg sharply with the cane he carried. Young whippersnapper. That's the trouble with young people today, no respect for their elders. Why, when I was a boy..... His voice trailed off querulously for a moment. Don't interrupt. He again swatted Steve on the shin.  
  
Ow, I didn't say anything, Steve protested, laughing and rubbing his leg with exaggerated care. Wrapping an arm protectively around his ribs for support, he slipped out of the chair and quickly removed himself from the vicinity of the pursuing stick. He circled his father at a discreet distance, admiring the thoroughness of his transformation and seeking any oversight that might betray his identity. Mark maintained his pose but stood still to facilitate the scrutiny.  
  
It's remarkable, Steve admitted at last. I know it's you, but I can't _see _you. Even your hands look gnarled and somehow misshapen.  
  
Mark turned to Lucas, nearly bouncing with glee. Hollywood lost a genius when you retired, my friend, but your biggest challenge awaits. What can you do for my son?  
  
Steve backed away defensively, realising a strategic retreat was imperative as two pairs of eyes fastened on him, one with clinical appraisal, the other with mischievous glee. No way are you putting any of that gunk on me, so you can both take that Dr Frankenstein urge someplace else.  
  
Mark feigned great disappointment. Lucas could make you look like a movie star, then no one would recognise you.  
  
I think that's beyond even his talents, Steve contradicted him dryly.  
  
Just a wig and some rouge, Mark appealed plaintively.  
  
Steve snorted. I can see the headlines now. His hands outlined the words in the air. Cop, killer or clown. No, thank you. I'd like to preserve _some_ dignity.  
  
In the end, he escaped with the small concession of a baseball hat and returned upstairs with more haste than grace to wait for the two older men to put the finishing touches on Mark's disguise. It wasn't long before they joined him, and Mark and Steve took their leave with many thanks and the promise to keep Lucas informed as to the success of their subterfuge.  
  
Steve was unusually quiet in the car, and the brim of his newly acquired cap cast shadows concealing his expression from Mark, but the older man could see the slow grind of his son's dentistry being destroyed. He was unsure whether the tension in his son's jaw should be attributed to physical discomfort or mental reservations over their proposed course of action. Deciding the explanation was probably some combination thereof, but knowing his son's propensity for non-committal answers to enquiries after his health, Mark phrased his concern obliquely. Dental insurance paid up?  
  
The apparent non-sequitur interrupted Steve's train of thought and earned his father a curious glance before he picked up on its implications. He consciously eased his clenched teeth before choosing to answer the spoken question rather than the unexpressed worry behind it.  
  
Of course. I figure I've got medical care wrapped up, but I don't know any dentists to sponge off for an impromptu root canal.  
  
Seeing that Mark wouldn't be so easily diverted, Steve relented. I don't like this, Dad. There are too many things that can go wrong.  
  
Such as what? Mark was quite happy to analyse his plan and plug any holes it might contain.  
  
Well, what if it rains? Is that stuff on your face waterproof?  
  
Mark leaned forward in his seat to better admire the purity of the blue sky, unblemished by so much as a single cloud. I'll take my umbrella, he promised solemnly. It could also prove useful for repelling any little green aliens who try to abduct me under cover of the torrential downpour.  
  
Steve's mouth twitched unwillingly. Okay, bad example, he conceded. But, someone might recognise you, and if something does go wrong, you're out there with no back up.  
  
That was the crux of the matter. Although Mark had placed himself in risky situations before, usually to draw out a suspect, it had always been under the watchful eyes of his son. This time, Steve would be unable to accompany his father or even be close enough to help him if his identity was revealed, and every protective instinct Steve possessed revolted at the notion, raising hackles of alarm that prickled uncomfortably up his spine, leaving him restless and edgy.  
  
Mark started to say something reassuring, but stopped as Steve stiffened noticeably in his seat, his eyes flicking to the rear view mirror.  
  
Police car just pulled out, two vehicles back. Steve's voice was colourless, yet the bitter frustration of eluding his former colleagues like a common criminal bled through the walls of his stony facade.  
  
Tension rippled through Mark's body, but he didn't look back, striving for at least the appearance of nonchalance. The last thing they needed was to attract attention by behaving suspiciously, and rubber-necking at the police car would fall into that category. Although there probably wasn't a cop in the city who couldn't recognise Steve on sight, a lot now depended on how alert the officers in the car were feeling and if the truck had been reported as stolen.  
  
The car behind them signaled a left turn and, as smoothly as possible, Steve also merged into the turn lane, preventing anyone in the police car from getting a clear look at his vehicle. However, from the momentary grimace on his son's face, Mark knew that the cruiser was, by coincidence or design, still following them. The suspense grew, swelling into an almost tangible fellow passenger in the quiet truck and, in the absence of visual input, Mark found himself straining to filter through the miscellaneous external sounds of traffic in the hopes of overhearing some kind of clue as to whether the officers were calling for backup or were oblivious as to their identity.  
  
Quickly tiring of the uncertainty, Steve slowed down marginally before the next traffic light, catching it nicely as it turned. Sliding smoothly through on the orange, he left the following cars stranded on red. He waited anxiously, dividing his attention between the rear view mirror and the road ahead, until he was satisfied that the police car had no intention of giving chase.  
  
False alarm, he announced laconically, but he took a couple of little-used roads to shake any possible pursuit. Mark sat silently, deciding that there was no consolation he could offer his son for becoming the hunted instead of the hunter. The incident sobered him, reminding him how dangerous and unpredictable a situation they were in. Since Steve had returned, almost miraculously, from the dead, his relief and joy at their reunion had prevented him from treating their predicament with the seriousness it deserved. It was not a game, especially for his son, whose career and reputation were at stake.  
  
Mark had decided that it would be safer if Steve didn't approach the vicinity of Community General, and that, furthermore, it would add verisimilitude to his performance if Mark arrived by bus, so Steve pulled into a small parking lot several blocks from the hospital. He parked the car and turned to his father. Mark gave him a bright smile, momentarily forgetting his makeup, and Steve shuddered in disgust.  
  
What have you done to your teeth? he exclaimed. They look disgusting.  
  
All the better to eat you with, Mark parodied.  
  
Or not, Steve observed, staring in fascination at the rotten stumps. Look, Dad. I know it's a great disguise, but these people know you, work with you everyday.  
  
Would _you_ recognise me? Mark challenged.  
  
Not visually, Steve was forced to admit. But you've got to watch your voice.  
  
It'll work, Mark stated confidently. Trust me.  
  
The two scariest words in the English language and completely irrelevant, Steve returned easily. I trust you implicitly; it's the bad guys I don't trust.  
  
It's going to take a while, Mark continued, carefully ignoring that comment. Emergency rooms don't work fast for non-critical patients. So don't come running to my rescue if I'm not back in a couple of hours, okay? Get some rest.  
  
Steve gave a snort that indicated his skepticism as to the likelihood of rest in the immediate future. Don't be too long, he requested, or my hair will also have turned gray by the time you return. Although phrased lightly, the words conveyed the depth of his apprehension, and Mark didn't try to dismiss his anxiety with their customary banter. He reached over and squeezed his son's shoulder in oblique apology before opening his door.  
  
Steve had to suppress his automatic urge to assist the elderly as Mark creakily descended from the cab, already in character. Be careful, he urged, hating the passive role he was forced to play. A reluctant smile of admiration lightened the brooding expression on his face as he watched Mark's shuffling progress to the bus stop. It was impossible to see his spry father in the laboured movements and arthritic gestures, at least from a distance.  
  
As Mark disappeared from sight, Steve flopped back disconsolately in his seat, resigning himself to several hours of boredom, their misery compounded by his ignorance of Mark's fate. Too restless to contemplate the relaxation his father had recommended, he cast around for some distraction to prevent his imagination from conjuring up disturbing visions. He remembered seeing Mark push something into the pocket of his door as he exited and, with the curiosity of desperation, he scooted over the seat to investigate. The instant his hand closed on the object he knew what it was.  
  
Damn it, he whispered softly, holding Latiere's notebook as if were a hand grenade primed to explode. Its presence told him that Mark was not as blithely confident as he had asserted, yet he'd still thrown himself with verve into the lion's den. Steve was suddenly seized by the conviction that this course of action was a terrible mistake, and he fought the temptation to go after his father. If he left now, he should be able to catch him before he entered the hospital even though he would inevitably reveal himself to any potential watchers outside. But even as he contemplated such action, he knew he wouldn't do it. Mark believed this was their best chance to contact Jesse and Amanda and arrange for some much-needed assistance and he would, as always, trust his father's instincts.  
  
Frustration at his own impotence coiled inside him, and he slammed a fist into the dashboard. It was a moderately satisfying release of tension, and only the knowledge that beating up on the car wasn't the best way to remain inconspicuous prevented him from doing it again. He swore that the next time Mark embarked on a crazy scheme, he'd accompany him even if it meant dressing up as an orangutan. With a sigh, he opened the notebook and tried to bury his impatience in the challenge of deciphering its secrets.  
  
He really hated waiting.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
  
Mark took advantage of his raised and relatively sheltered position in the bus to survey the lay of the land as he arrived at Community General. There was a police car parked across the street and a uniformed man at each entrance, but Mark's sharp eye also picked out several other people loitering suspiciously around the building. He had worked at the hospital for many years, taking so much for granted, that this preternatural awareness as he approaching the building from the perspective of a patient, and a fraudulent one at that, was oddly disconcerting. As he tottered uncertainly to the exit of the bus, a man whom Mark recognised as a male nurse from the oncology unit, assisted him down the step, and Mark repaid his kindness with a paroxysm of hacking coughs.  
  
Rounded shoulders and a stooped back camouflaged both his height and features but forced his eyes toward the ground as he shuffled slowly to the Emergency Room doors, trying to think like an old man, a surprisingly difficult exercise. He felt his heartbeat speed up as he passed under the gaze of the young officer at the door, silently admiring the polish on his shoes as the man politely kept the automatic doors from closing on his slow passage through. It was easy, and Mark's confidence rose as he successfully infiltrated the building, but the brief image of a rat entering a trap prevented him from becoming too cocksure. It was always easier to enter a snare than leave.  
  
He had decided that, to make sure he saw Jesse rather than one of the other ER doctors, he needed to allege a prior history, however brief, as his patient and, even if they couldn't locate any records, he was sure Jesse would find time to see him. Claiming the symptoms of the onset of diabetes along with a violent cough, he introduced himself as Johann Borovsky, an uninsured nonagenarian. He was directed to the waiting room to fill out some forms, then, for the next half an hour, he sat quietly, resting his chin on the hands clasping his cane, allowing himself to be shaken by the occasional bout of coughing while he experienced the ER from a very different angle.  
  
He suspected that the burly man in the corner, dividing his time between keen perusals of the area and its occupants and quick glances through a toppling pile of magazines in front of him, was an undercover officer. His main concern, however, was that he had not yet caught sight of Jesse, and he hoped his young friend hadn't switched off his shift for some reason.  
  
When he finally heard Jesse's voice, he was too relieved at first to notice that it was raised in uncharacteristic indignation.  
  
I _have_ cooperated. You just chose not to believe me. Seconds later, Jesse came into view in front of the waiting room, but Mark was unprepared for the sight of his companion, the IA captain, Simmons.  
  
He quickly schooled his features, hoping no one had noticed the lapse of dismay. Luckily, the raised voices had attracted attention, and Mark was not alone in watching the altercation.  
  
Jesse continued heatedly. You're wasting time with all your goons here. He flung an impassioned hand in the direction of the man in the corner, confirming Mark's suspicions. I don't believe for a minute that Steve Sloan shot that man, so you'd do better if your officers looked for the real killer instead of getting in the way here.  
  
There is absolutely no doubt that Lieutenant Sloan killed Officer Wilson. Simmons spoke with icy control.  
  
What happened to innocent until proven guilty'? Jesse shot back immediately.  
  
Mark was enjoying Jesse's defense of his son so much that he missed the nurse call, Johann Borovsky.  
  
With a start, he suddenly remembered his pseudonym as she called out a second time. Mark's heart disconnected from his chest and, with wings beating frantically, attempted to fly out of his mouth, as he realised the timing couldn't have been worse and that he was going to have to cross right in front of Simmons. The wavering as he got arduously to his feet was not all feigned, but the fear wasn't for himself. If his identity was uncovered, this was too public a place for any harm to come to him, but, if he were taken into custody, he knew that Steve wouldn't allow him to take the fall alone and would turn himself in. In jail, the convicts would line up round the block to brutalise him, even without the encouragement and inducements Mark expected would be offered.  
  
Mark's hands were clammy on his cane and, with a jolt of hysteria, he realised that Steve was right to worry about the waterproof qualities of the make-up, although it was sweat rather than rain that would test its caliber. He had a sudden mental image of the makeup running off his face in rivulets as he neared the Captain, leaving him streaked like a elderly raccoon in a thunderstorm.  
  
While part of his mind gibbered in panic, he automatically continued his slow shuffle to the door. He fastened his gaze on Simmons' shoes, noting absently that they lacked the shine of his subordinate's. As he approached, he felt an inexorable, hypnotic impulse to raise his gaze to the police captain's face, even knowing it would be a fatal mistake.  
  
But, despite his fear, there was an impish part of him that was tempted to accidentally' whack Simmons on the ankle with his cane in passing and, if the stakes weren't as high, he might have succumbed to the impulse, but he couldn't be reckless with his son's life.  
  
He moved between Jesse and the Captain, expecting any minute for a hand to descend roughly to his shoulder, but both men automatically moved aside for him as Jesse continued his diatribe. I've got patients to see so please stay out of the way. Mark and Steve know the hospital will be watched so there's no chance they'll risk coming here. Take your men and do something more constructive like helping old ladies across the street.  
  
As Mark entered a treatment cubicle, he sank limply into a chair, torn between hysterical laughter, residual terror and relief. His turbulent emotions had the unexpected but beneficial side effect of giving correspondingly alarming measurements of blood pressure and pulse rate instead of his usual healthy readings. The nurse also handed him a urine cup but he stalled her, pleading an uncooperative bladder.  
  
As the nurse left, pulling a curtain across the opening to afford him a modicum of privacy, Mark's whole body sagged with the release of tension, although he didn't dare break character in any way. It was relaxing not to have to keep up an active pretense. He hadn't realised it would be so hard to sustain his role. His shoulders and neck were aching from the unnatural position he was maintaining, and the cosmetics itched. He'd caught himself several times just before he indulged in a hearty scratch.  
  
It was another half hour before Jesse showed up, although there were several false alarms with people brushing past the curtain that kept Mark's nerves in a constant state of alarm. To Mark's dismay, when Jesse finally arrived he was accompanied by a nurse and Mark was forced to continue the charade. He wasn't sure it would have succeeded if the other doctor hadn't been so obviously distracted. Although he was kindness itself, his face still held a slight flush of anger. Mark's chance finally arrived when Jesse sent the nurse out of the room to check on different spellings to try to locate the missing records.  
  
Jesse, it's me, Mark hissed in a sibilant whisper.  
  
Jesse's reaction was everything he could have hoped for. He stiffened and took an involuntary step backwards, knocking over a tray of instruments which fell to the ground in a splendidly resounding, metallic crash. The surprise robbed Jesse of his usual agility and, as he spun to prevent the disaster, he tripped over the bottom of the table and sprawled headlong.  
  
No one could have missed the cacophony, and concerned nurses ran in to find the elderly patient sitting passively, chewing on his false teeth and regarding the prone doctor with mild bemusement. Jesse quickly reassured them, apologising sweetly for his clumsiness and dismissing them as hastily as possible.  
  
Once alone, he approached Mark cautiously, head tilted slightly on one side, staring into the brown eyes opposite as if he couldn't decided if he were suffering from mild hallucinations or stress-induced delusions. Mark couldn't help allowing a broad grin to spread across his face and he saw the answering relief in Jesse's eyes, closely followed by panic.  
  
Mark! What are you doing here? he hissed. This place is swimming with cops. Is Steve alright? What...?  
  
Mark held up a finger to his lips stopping the torrent of questions in full spate, noting with deep gratitude that not one of the questions related to the issue of their guilt.  
  
We don't have a lot of time. Take your stethoscope out in case we're interrupted. He waited while Jesse complied. Ow, that's cold, he complained.  
  
If I'd had time, I would have put it in the freezer, Jesse admonished him austerely. You nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought I was several kernels short of a cob.  
  
Mark smiled in response, but got down to business. You know, you could get into severe trouble for helping us? he asked, already anticipating Jesse's reaction to his warning, but needing to say it anyway.  
  
Yeah, yeah, loss of medical license, jail time, yadda yadda. Jesse waved a dismissive hand. I've helped people I've believed in less, thanks to you actually, so let's drop the doom and gloom stuff. Of course I'm helping.  
  
It's not just the legal consequences, Jess. I don't have the time to explain what's going on, but it's incredibly dangerous. It's not a game, the stakes are very high and you can't trust anybody.  
  
Not a game, high stakes, trust no one. Got it. Jesse enthusiasm was irrepressible.  
  
Mark couldn't decide if it was safer to leave Jesse in ignorance or not. He knew he'd never forgive himself if the young doctor came to harm because of lack of information, but it proved to be a moot point anyway since he had no time to fill the young man in on the intricacies of the web of corruption in which he and Steve had been entangled. However, he felt that an additional word of caution wouldn't go amiss.  
  
Promise me you won't try investigating on your own, Jess. It's important for us know you're here safe when we need you. It's also important that you keep an eye on Tanis Archer. I think she's in grave danger, especially if she seems on the way to recovery.  
  
Jesse nodded a reluctant agreement. What can I do for you now, Mark?  
  
Suddenly dubious of the wisdom of involving Jesse to any degree but lacking options, Mark finally admitted, What we really need is a car, one that's not stolen or linked in any way to the hospital or our friends. But you know they'll be watching you the whole time; I don't know how you can do this safely.  
  
Mark could almost see the wheels of inspiration turning in his colleague's agile mind. Watching me maybe, but I doubt they'll be watching Susan. They can't be watching all the nurses in the hospital. Okay, leave it to me, a car, what else?  
  
We can't use our credit cards so some extra cash would be useful. Oh, and a laptop computer, he added as an afterthought. I have to do some research on the internet.  
  
No problem, Jesse asserted stoutly. Where can I get these things to you?  
  
Before Mark could think of a practical solution to this problem, the sound of footsteps alerted them to the nurse's return, and they hastily reverted to their doctor/patient performance. Removing the stethoscope and pulling Mark's shirt down, Jesse walked over to the counter, his back to the others in the room.  
  
I'm going to write you a prescription, Mr Borovsky. After a minute, he handed a folded-over piece of paper to Mark. Please take this to the pharmacy to be filled.  
  
He patted his patient's shoulder reassuringly. You did the right thing coming to see me today, he told the elderly man kindly. If things don't improve in the next few days, please come and see me again. Do you understand?  
  
Mark could only admire his friend for the clear message delivered in plain sight and nodded his compliance.  
  
To his relief, Simmons was nowhere in sight as he emerged from the ER, and now, fairly confident in his disguise, he tottered feebly out the hospital under the oblivious eyes of several officers, back to the bus stop. It wasn't until he was safely ensconced on the bus that he withdrew the piece of paper from his pocket, reading the physician's scrawl with practiced ease.  
  
_Tomorrow , car park behind Dave's Grocery. Will tape key to underside of right, rear mud flap. Take care.  
  
_Confident that Jesse would successfully complete his assignment, Mark considered his adventure a resounding success, and was hard put to suppress the spring in his step as he descended from the bus. As he rounded the corner, Mark could see Steve watching for him and even at this distance, he could see him blow a long sigh as tension eased from his body. Steve started the truck and cruised out of the parking lot to meet him, too impatient after the inactivity to wait for his father's hobbling progress. It was clear from the broad grin on Mark's face that his plan had achieved its goals.  
  
Mission accomplished! Mark forgot his own excitement as he took a good look at his son. While the intervening hours may not have been physically stressful for Steve, it was clear that they had been anything but restful. He looked exhausted and, if Mark were any judge, his fever had risen again. Yet, there was an air of suppressed excitement about him that seemed to suggest Steve had his own news to share.  
  
Mark would have offered to drive if he didn't think it would look strange for such a decrepit individual as his disguised self to be driving his hearty son in such a vehicle. He was still recounting his adventures when Steve pulled into a parking space at the motel. Smiling reluctantly at something Mark had said, hand on the door release he looked up casually, his eyes meeting those of an individual sitting in a car across the street. Recognition was immediate on both sides. For a second the tableau froze, each man paralysed by past friendship and the incongruity of their current roles, then, with a squeal of tires, Steve peeled out of the parking space. Behind him, came the unearthly, threatening wail of a siren as the unmarked police car took up the chase.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9  
  
Steve spared a split-second glance away from the road to check that Mark's seat belt was still securely fastened before sliding across two lanes of traffic to take an abrupt right turn. Mark braced himself awkwardly with an arm against the door, his stomach plummeting as he faced the reality of a high-speed chase through Los Angeles, an activity he would not have placed in his top ten list of lifetime aspirations.  
  
Mark knew his son was LA born and bred. Steve had patrolled its streets for over 20 years and he knew the city, its roads and hidden byways with the intimate knowledge of one who had worn out many inches of shoe leather on its streets. He had also participated in many a pursuit, though never from the perspective of the fugitive, and Mark trusted his driving implicitly, but he'd also watched such pursuits on TV and he knew that a high-speed chase almost inevitably ended in a correspondingly high-speed impact, either with some unfortunate bystander or with some solid and unforgiving object, so he couldn't help but question the wisdom of such a course of action.  
  
This doesn't strike me as the best choice of vehicle for the high-speed part of this activity. He almost managed to sound casual apart from a betraying squeak near the end as Steve took the next corner on two wheels.  
  
It does have one excellent qualification for the situation. Steve's smile held little humour. It has the resilience of a small tank in a crash.  
  
How comforting, Mark said brightly and mendaciously. He decided to stay quiet to allow Steve to concentrate on his evasive strategy, which seemed to mainly consist of unpredictability, taking frequent turns to make it harder for other police cars to join in the pursuit.  
  
Mark's knuckles weren't white merely on his own behalf. His greatest fear was that an innocent bystander would take a wrong turn at an inopportune moment and get hurt as a result. He knew Steve had weighed and accepted the possible consequences of his actions, but he didn't want either of them living with the guilt of such an occurrence. He sought to distract his imagination with more concrete information, appealing to Steve's professional experience.  
  
What do you think they'll do? he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. Are they going to set up roadblocks or will they try to ram us?  
  
Steve braked sharply to avoid a preoccupied pedestrian, surrendering part of his hard-won lead. Peering at the cruisers in his rear-view mirror as he accelerated sharply, he answered absently. Actually, that's generally frowned upon. The courts consider it a Fourth Amendment seizure. However, the only time it's regarded as justified is when a life-threatening felony is involved.  
  
And I suppose we would qualify? Mark guessed glumly.  
  
With bells on, Steve confirmed.  
  
Mark pondered the implications of that revelation. Coupled with his reservations on the dangers they were presenting to their follow travelers, it was enough to make him suggest tentatively and reluctantly, Maybe we should surrender. Our arrest should be public enough to prevent any accidental' shooting.  
  
Steve shook his head. That's not an option any more, he stated grimly, taking one hand off the wheel long enough to remove the notebook from his pocket and toss it to his father. Look at the back, he instructed. The last few pages are different.  
  
Instead of the multiple columns of figures they had tried to decipher earlier, these pages were organised in simple lines, each containing a ten-to-twelve character alphanumeric combination.  
  
After giving Mark a moment to look them over, Steve continued. There was something vaguely familiar about the arrangement, and after nothing to do but stare at them for several hours, I realised why. There was a dramatic pause as Steve concentrated on weaving his way through an alley to burst through onto a different street. They're police badge numbers with some extra digits tacked on the end. I think Latiere recorded which cops were on the take and how much each was paid.  
  
Mark stared at the journal with horrified eyes. That isn't insurance, it's dynamite!  
  
A ticking time bomb, Steve confirmed. And we're holding it. There are dozens of different badge numbers recorded here, and we don't even know if it's a complete list. You can bet that every one of them is going to make sure that it doesn't see the light of day.  
  
Do you recognise any of them? Mark asked, grasping for any silver lining.  
  
I know my own badge number, and I could take a decent stab at Cheryl's, but it's not the sort of thing you go around memorising. However, it's not too hard to find out. I have to make sure this gets into the right hands.  
  
Steve had been giving some thought as to how he could fulfill the obligations he still held as a police officer while still maintaining his most compelling commitment -- to safeguard his father. He had no time to refine his argument into a more palatable form, but had to try anyway. Dad, the best thing to do now is for me to try to gain enough headway to drop you off unseen with the notebook and then lead them away. We'll arrange for a place to meet up later.  
  
Mark's response was instant and adamant. You're not going anywhere without me.  
  
Realising the futility of further argument on the matter, Steve muttered something about stubborn fathers and ejector seats but didn't pursue the subject any further. He scrubbed a hand over his forehead, trying to remove the headache that had taken up residence there. The blast in the warehouse had done more than kill his colleagues; it had exploded his life into splinters of confusion. Since then, every decision he had made and every action he had taken had run counter to his instincts and training as a police officer. He should trust in the system that he had served faithfully for decades, but the image of his father being subdued by three bulky cops holding a gun to his head had cemented his decision to run. Through the quicksand of shifting allegiances and the turbulence of moral ambiguity, Mark remained his lodestone, the only sane thing in a world of kaleidoscopic madness, and he would willingly sacrifice his career, and even his life, to keep him safe.  
  
Despite Steve's best efforts, there were now three patrol cars behind them driving them forward, and as Mark glanced down a side street, he caught sight of a similar predatory shape on the parallel street, a wolf's shadow flitting through the concrete forest attempting to encircle its prey. They were experiencing a curious double peril, the imagined, yet very real, danger that existed if they were captured, and the imminent danger of the chase itself. Mark's mounting desperation was only kept at bay by a sense of unreality maintained by the relative quiet in the truck and his own inactivity. It was hard to believe that mortal danger lay outside. No wind stirred his hair despite the speed of their pursuit, and only the jostling as he was slammed against the door or the seat belt marked the abrupt changes of acceleration or direction that served as reminders of the violence, the cat-and-mouse struggle that engulfed them. Yet Mark was convinced that Steve, at least, would not long survive arrest. The armed and dangerous label so carelessly applied to his son would be a convenient justification for the use of lethal force at his arrest.  
  
As Mark's fertile mind searched for a plan, the vivid image of his son cut down in a hail of bullets served as a constant backdrop. Normally, he succeeded in burying his fear for his son deep enough that it only emerged in heated explosions of violence in his darkest nightmares, but, after so recently experiencing the clawing anguish and desolate emptiness of his loss, even if premature, his emotions were too raw to repress.  
  
A quick glance across at Steve showed his son's total concentration focused on control of the vehicle as he threaded it past obstructing traffic with the deftness of a consummate artist wielding a brush. However, the stern set of his mouth revealed his aversion to his own actions. Steve knew exactly how risky his current venture was, and could quote statistics on the likelihood of it ending in a collision. He had no false modesty concerning his own driving skills but knew that, at high speed, the unexpected occurred in the blink of an eye. He desperately didn't want to cause an accident to others, but also knew that the most likely vehicle to be involved in a crash was the motorist being pursued and, statistically, the person most likely to be hurt was any passenger in that car. He was endangering his father's life, as well as that of others, and that was anathema to him. He was depending on the fact that pursuits were discouraged by the department, since a single lawsuit for a pursuit could cost millions of dollars and drain a department's resources. Officers were allowed to disobey certain vehicle codes on the chase, but they were not exempt from the responsibility for the safety of others.  
  
So far, he had successfully confined the chase to areas with little traffic, partly to decrease their chances of being tangled up in congestion, but also to minimise the danger to bystanders, but he knew that, despite the gathering dark, it was unlikely he would succeed for much longer. If he'd been alone, he'd have dumped the truck in a propitious area and decamped on foot, but his father, although in superb condition for a man his age, would be unable to maintain a pace that would make it a gamble worth taking.  
  
He needed an edge, something that would give Mark a head start. A plan started to take nebulous shape in his mind, its fuzzy edges tickling his ingenuity, but, before it had time to gain definition, the sleek shape of a cruiser lunged into his path, cutting off his passage. Two officers jumped out, aiming their weapons over the roof of their car.  
  
Get down! Steve yelled, matching the command with a long arm reaching over and yanking his father down behind the relative safety of the dashboard. Making an instant decision, he slammed his hand on the horn as notice of his intentions and spun the wheel to strike the car near its front end, smashing it out of the way. To his relief, out of the side mirror, he could see both officers scrambling to their feet unhurt.  
  
The symbolism of being on the wrong end of the police specials affected him more than the danger it represented. He was now an outlaw, to be regarded with the same contempt by honest cops as he himself viewed the rogues who'd attempted to murder Mark, and he'd be hunted down as a rabid dog. It also presented him with an unforeseen dilemma that caused him to pound the steering wheel with savage frustration.  
  
I can't fire at them, he burst out in a voice taut with distress. Most of these guys are just doing their job, good cops. I can't risk hurting them.  
  
Mark's eyes were gentle with understanding. I wouldn't want you to. There are some lines you don't cross. We'll take our chances without getting extreme.  
  
Still torn by the conflict between the exigencies of the situation and the values he had adhered to all his life, Steve appreciated his father's unfaltering support. Focusing on his plan of escape, Mark's words firmed his resolution. We're not finished yet, Dad. I've got an idea. It's risky, but it could work.  
  
Steve cut through back roads and alleyways, taking more chances, but working his way as unobtrusively as possible to the highway. By now, it was completely dark and, for a time, no flashing lights could be seen behind them.  
  
Maybe we've lost them, Mark suggested optimistically.  
  
No, we're still being watched. Steve nodded his head upwards.  
  
Mark craned his neck, then, as Steve turned the next corner, he saw lights shining down on them from the sky. In the immediacy of the chase, he'd forgotten the range of technological options open to the LAPD.  
  
I don't suppose you took a course in the academy on shaking a helicopter pursuit? Mark queried hopefully.  
  
No, that's terrorism 101, Steve commented dryly. Surface to air missiles. Nothing much else will do it.  
  
I suppose that would come under the heading of extreme.  
  
Extremely extreme. But actually, I'm pleased to see it. Hopefully, knowing we're under unshakeable surveillance will encourage the police cars to disengage, allowing us to draw away slightly. We need that lead.  
  
You mean they'll stop chasing us? Mark was puzzled by the ambiguous terminology.  
  
Actually, they'll still follow but not pursue, a technical difference. They'll hang back, supposedly to lull us into a false sense of security and help safeguard the civilians around.  
  
As their destination became obvious, there was a last-ditch attempt to cut them off, but by dint of evasive maneuvering and superior bulk, Steve forced his way through. He knew that the police cars could outpace him on the straight freeway, but hoped that, if he kept up an excessive speed, no one would be foolhardy enough to attempt interception. With the pedal pressed to the floor, they zipped down the freeway weaving skillfully past the minimal traffic. Despite their rocketing headway, Mark infinitely preferred this to their former progress in the city. At least now there were no pedestrians and fewer obstacles with which to collide. It was a temporary and mild respite from strain, but Mark did relax marginally, rubbing his face in an effort to restore circulation to cheeks aching from muscular tension. At this speed, a moment's lapse of concentration would be fatal, so he didn't question Steve about his plan.  
  
Mark had grown used to watching headlights fade in their wake except for those that accompanied the blue, whirling lights, so it was with growing unease that he noticed one pair of lights gaining steadily on them. he warned his son.  
  
I see Steve replied tersely. I don't think it's the cops, but it could be some irresponsible idiot who wants to join in the fun, but how did they get past the police cars? They're supposed to prevent this from happening.  
  
As the mysterious car crept closer, Steve's misgivings evolved into active alarm. He moved to block the other vehicle's passage, sensing that its goal was inimical to their welfare. The two cars jockeyed for position. The BMW had superior speed and maneuverability, but kept a respectful distance from the truck's greater mass. Finally, with a quick burst of speed, the car surged level on their right. The window started to slide down and, as it yawned wider, a shaft of moonlight shone off the twin barrels of a shotgun.  
  
Steve reacted instantly, faster than conscious thought. The truck was already traveling at top speed, and they were too far away from the car to ram it, so his only choice was to slam on the brakes. He threw out an arm, instinctively trying to protect his father, agonisingly aware that, in the passenger seat, Mark would be exposed to the full, lethal blast. Indeed, without his quick reflexes, the broadside would have hit his father square on. As it was, the outside of the blast radius caught the corner of the car, shattering Mark's side window and the windscreen. The relative quiet of the cab was sucked away in a splintering of glass, and the howling of wind forcing its way through the jagged gaps, but not even that or the grinding scream of the wheels biting into the gravel could drown the thunder as the second barrel discharged.  
  
The concentration of pellets missed, but they clipped the front right tyre, exploding it and sending the truck careening out of control. Steve didn't even notice the sting of cuts on his hands and arms from the flying glass as he fought to control the truck, which bucked and screamed under his hands like a wild animal in its death throes. He couldn't even spare a glance to reassure himself that Mark hadn't been caught in the periphery of the blast. Only his experience racing cars enabled him to keep his bearings through the maelstrom of roaring wind and the million points of light reflecting dizzily off the shattered glass. But it was Mark's wordless shout of alarm that warned him of impending disaster.  
  
Framed by the jagged remains of glass in Mark's window, he saw the corner of the bridge buttress towards which the car's momentum was inexorably carrying them to an inevitable collision. Impact at this speed would effectively shear the vehicle in half, killing them instantly.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10  
  
Finally succeeding in wrestling the steering wheel into temporary submission, Steve wrenched it around, steering the vehicle into the skid, which meant, suicidally, straight towards the bridge. He knew that his control of the truck was precarious, so he didn't attempt any major evasive maneuvers, merely adjusting their direction enough to avert disaster by millimeters.  
  
In the confusion, Steve had lost track of their assailants, but, unwilling to take a chance of facing that magnitude of fire power again, Steve used the momentum and heft of the truck to punch a hole in the guard rail. With a rending smash, he tore through, and started sliding, jostling uncomfortably, down the hill on the other side of the highway until he reached the road below. The flat tyre meant that he still had to fight every minute to control the truck, but, for the first time, he was able to check on his father.  
  
Are you okay? he shouted across the cab. Mark was chalk-white and sitting bolt upright in his seat. Steve knew that the last few minutes had been, if possible, even worse for his father than they had been for himself since, as a passenger, Mark had been unable to do anything but sit and wait for the end, but at least he seemed uninjured.  
  
Mark loosened the death grip he hadn't even realised he was holding on the door. Who were the party crashers? he asked with a game smile.  
  
Not cops, Steve replied grimly.  
  
In his preoccupation with avoiding the police, both crooked and straight, he'd not given a thought to the third element in their complex, interrelated molecule -- the criminals. The existence of Latiere's notebook had obviously become common knowledge, so the Ganza crime organisation would want it back, and possibly, even rival organisations would take steps to acquire it, depending on the nature of its contents. No member of organised crime would hesitate to blow them away in their efforts to obtain it. Steve's estimation of the danger they were facing ratcheted up several notches. The Sloan family was proving to be a monkey wrench in some large, impersonal machines that would chew them up and spit them out, given the opportunity. Suddenly, surrendering to the cops seemed like the lesser of two evils. If they remained on the run, the chances were they would be crushed between the opposing behemoths of law and organised crime with no sanctuary into which to retreat.  
  
They needed time to regroup and work out a strategy that would enable them to dig themselves out of the morass that seemed to suck them deeper with each passing hour. A wavering halo of light still illuminated them from above, as the helicopter hovered like an abducting UFO, but it seemed that the police cars were taking the more conventional exit route from the freeway, since Steve could spot no signs of pursuit from behind. Secrecy was out of the question anyway, since the metal of the wheel rim had cut through the punctured tyre and was sending off showers of sparks like a fourth-of-July firework to mark their passage.  
  
Mark had obviously been following Steve's general train of thought, as he met his son's eyes with unwonted seriousness. We're in real trouble, aren't we? How's your plan working out?  
  
Steve tried to sound as encouraging as the dismal circumstances allowed. We're on the right road, at least. A year ago, I was on a stake-out in this area and I ended up chasing a suspect here. It's a total labyrinth of warehouses and abandoned buildings.  
  
Did you catch him? Mark asked, following the story intently.  
  
Nope, lost him completely, Steve stated with no noticeable regret.  
  
Good...I mean...  
  
I know what you mean, Steve cut in, a brief smile crossing his face, quick as summer lightning. What made me think of it was that I arrested the guy recently on an unrelated charge, and he bragged about our former encounter and explained how he'd disappeared. I think it could work for us too.  
  
Mark hesitated, seeing himself as the inherent weakness in this plan. Steve, if we're taking off on foot, I'm only going to slow you down. Maybe it would be best if...  
  
Not a chance, Steve broke in again. Where I go, you go, remember? You can't change the rules on me now. You're not going to ditch me.  
  
I'm sorry, Mark stated remorsefully. You were right. I should have listened to you. If you'd dropped me off earlier, then you'd have a better chance now.  
  
No, you were right, Dad. Steve's reassurance was sincere. We're in this together and we're going to stick together. It's going to be okay. Anyway, there's no time for arguing, we're nearly there. Where's the notebook? I'll take that. See the big building there? When I stop, run for the door. I'll be right behind you so don't wait for anything.  
  
Mark nodded, determination clear in his face. As the truck slid drunkenly to a halt, he jumped out. The clanging of the tire on the roadway and roaring of the wind was replaced by the thunder of the chopper's rotating blades. Ignoring the tinny megaphone shout of, Stop, police, he arrived at the door.  
  
He was surprised to find Steve not on his heels as he'd promised, but he shortly arrived with pockets distended and a large pair of bolt cutters in his hands, and Mark realised he had taken the time to raid the tool box in the truck. He snapped the chain on the rusty padlock that barred the door and wrenched it open. His eyes had little chance to adjust to the darkness, but, in the dim, reflected light of the moon, he saw enough to surmise that the building was long and mostly empty. Steve deftly wound the remains of the chain round the bolt on the inside of the door to delay the pursuers they both knew would come, and then led them at a run to the door on the other side.  
  
Mark's breath was already coming in short, hard pants, more induced by adrenaline than fatigue. Yet, there was some relief in moving, in finally having an active role to play in the proceedings once again. Between their building and the next, there was a narrow passageway. The helicopter had increased its height to better observe the movements of the fugitives below, but only from directly overhead could it see them transfer to the next warehouse, and they successfully evaded its watchful eye.  
  
This weaving and sprinting set the pattern for the next twenty minutes. Steve took a circuitous route, occasionally opening locks on doors that they never entered in an attempt to set a false trail. They could hear the cries of pursuit and see the beams of flashlights searching, sometimes comfortingly distant, but at others alarmingly close. Steve tried to make the best time they could, knowing the police would be slowed down by the necessity of searching through the buildings, not all of which were empty. But, he also knew that, as soon as sufficient backup arrived, a cordon would be thrown around the whole area and they would be trapped. They had to reach their destination before that happened.  
  
As they reached yet another door, Mark bent over, hands on his knees to ease his straining lungs.  
  
You okay, Dad? Steve rested a concerned hand on his back.  
  
Mark managed to force out the word between breaths.  
  
Steve crouched down, his hand still steadying his father. Yeah, Dad?  
  
When... did we last...play one-on-one?  
  
The unexpected nature of the query surprised a low laugh from his son. I don't know. It's been a while.  
  
Well, when we get home, we're going to start again. I'm out of shape.  
  
Steve couldn't speak for a minute, his heart tightening at his father's wistful picture of a tranquil future that seemed so hard to picture at this time.  
  
He squeezed his father's shoulder gently. It's a date, Dad.  
  
Mark's words bolstered Steve's determination but, as he opened the door and peered cautiously out, desperation warred with that renewed resolve. They had reached the end of the warehouses and a large open stretch of ground yawned in front of them before they could reach the next available cover. The original chopper had been joined by a second and they patrolled the area, searchlights sweeping frequently over the exposed space they would have to traverse.  
  
What is this place? Mark's question cut through Steve's thoughts which were tumbling frantically, searching for some way to cross without detection.  
  
It's the end of a disused railway line, a storage spur. It was abandoned a few years ago. See, over there is the end of the track. We need to get to that large building beyond it. I think it was the administrative offices.  
  
Mark assessed the distance bleakly. That's got to be at least 100 yards, he estimated. And no shelter between except those old carriages.  
  
We need a diversion, Steve stated thoughtfully. Making up his mind, he patted his father on the knee. Wait here. Don't move unless you're in danger of being discovered. You'll know the opportunity when it comes, and then run like hell. Try to get at least under the cover of the carriages.  
  
Mark caught Steve's sleeve, apprehensive as to the nature of his son's intentions.  
  
I'm not going to do anything stupid, Steve reassured him. I'll catch up with you in a few minutes. That's a promise.  
  
Mark released him reluctantly, hating the idea of separation, but knowing that his son was right. They needed some diversion.  
  
Steve melted into the shadows, and Mark was left alone in the darkness. His eyes strained to follow his son's progress, his nerves on edge. The waiting seemed interminable. Shadows crawled like fingers on the wall and soft creaks echoed threateningly in his ears. He pondered the advisability of staying where he was, nerves stretched to the point of ripping.  
  
A sudden explosion rent the night, causing Mark to start violently as an orange glow lit the sky behind him and to the right. Certain that the blast signaled Steve's distraction, and trying to close his mind to its possible implications, Mark waited for the helicopter patrolling above to swing away towards the source of the disturbance and then ran.  
  
He sprinted with a fervour he hadn't discovered for many years. The pounding of his heart matched the pounding of his feet on the gravel, but the sight of his destination looming could not blot out the images thrown up by his mind. Had Steve been injured in the blast or caught by the overwhelming numbers of police descending on the area? Reaching the carriage, he scrambled gratefully under it, needing the brief respite from exertion. He looked back, hoping he would see his son's rugged form following behind, but in vain.  
  
He wiped his damp face with a grimy sleeve, pausing at the surprisingly sticky texture he discovered, and suddenly remembered his makeup. This morning's peaceful interlude at Lucas' seemed a life-time away from the desperation of the moment. Realising he couldn't afford to linger any longer in the past or in the shelter, Mark rolled out the other side of the carriage and with a quick check, resumed his running.  
  
He had nearly reached his destination when he became aware of footsteps hammering in his wake. Hoping it was his son, but afraid he might have been discovered, Mark turned his head mid-stride to verify the identity of the other man. His inattention to his path in the dark proved to be a costly mistake. Unaware of a pothole ahead, his foot twisted on the edge and he sprawled headlong. Stunned by the impact, he nevertheless tried to regain his feet, his hands pushing against the sharp lumps of gravel, but, as a darting pain lanced through his left ankle, he crumpled to the ground again.  
  
The carriage blocked his view of the approaching runner, but, although Mark would have said it was impossible to recognise footsteps, he was filled with a growing certainly that it was indeed his son and this was shortly confirmed as a dark shape emerged from the shadows.  
  
  
  
Mark responded to the sharp note of anxiety evident in his son's voice with a terse explanation, My ankle.  
  
Despite his concern at the delay, Steve remained unhurried and calm, not wanting to rush his father.  
  
With Steve's help, Mark hauled himself to his feet, testing it gingerly. No, I think it's just sprained.  
  
Mark was facing the warehouse as Steve steadied him, and his eyes widened suddenly as he became aware of a growing illumination that indicated the imminent arrival of a vehicle. A car's coming!  
  
In one swift movement, Steve looped Mark's arm around his shoulders, scooping him into a turn. In a remarkably synchronised dash, they began an impromptu three-legged race towards safety.  
  
They had miscalculated in the dark, missing the door, and Steve realised there was no time to find it. He spotted some broken panels in one corner, and, in a frenzy of activity, he lowered Mark to the ground and started pulling at the boards, attempting to widen the gap sufficiently to enable them to squeeze through.  
  
Mark waited helplessly, expecting at any moment to be transfixed in the car's headlights like a bug impaled on a pin for display. But, at the last minute, Steve disappeared into the hole with a final deft wriggle and reached back to haul Mark through, cushioning his abrupt arrival. He hastily rearranged the boards to hide signs of their passage, then they both waited, trying to control their frantic breathing, unsure if they had been spotted diving into the hole like a fox going to ground.  
  
The muted glow of headlights sweeping over the boarded-up windows briefly illuminated the room and then the car was gone. Mark sagged in relief, knowing the darkness would hide his accompanying grimace of pain. The building was pitch black, he couldn't even see his ankle, but he could feel the swelling there. Running was now out of the question, and he knew the injury would impede their progress, endangering both their lives.  
  
That was really stupid, he said in disgust. I'm sorry, Steve. Now I'm really going to slow you down.  
  
It's not a problem, Dad, Steve reassured him quietly. It's not too far away now. We'll be fine. Can I wrap something round the ankle for support?  
  
Mark's fingers gently probed the area. I don't want to take the shoe off under the circumstances, and rest and ice are out of the question. I don't think it's too bad, but your services as a make-shift crutch would be appreciated. He looked up, searching for his son's face in the gloom. How did you create that explosion?  
  
Steve recognised the tacit admission of concern behind the question. I wasn't anywhere near the car when it exploded. I soaked a piece of cloth in gasoline, stuffed most of it in the tank and set it on fire.  
  
I'm glad you're on my side, Mark exclaimed, somewhat surprised by the range of criminal talents his son was displaying. Did you learn that on the streets too?  
  
There was a slight pause, then Steve admitted, On McGyver, actually. Suddenly, they were both laughing, the absurdity a welcome relief from the relentless tension of the last few hours.  
  
Mark blindly reached out a hand, indicating his willingness to proceed, and Steve helped him to his feet, again slinging his arm round his shoulder. The familiarity of the gesture prompted Mark's recollection of their role reversal only the previous day. As a further reminder of Steve's recent injury, Mark could feel the abnormal heat rising from his son's body and, for a moment, he tried to resist the proffered assistance.  
  
Steve, you're in no condition to be half-carrying me, he objected. You're supposed to be taking it easy today.  
  
I'll try to remember that. Thanks, Dad. His son's voice was warm with humour, and Mark could imagine the amused affection on his face.  
  
He tried again to protest, wishing he could see through the darkness to inspect Steve's injuries, but, in the end, settled for some medical interrogation. How are your ribs?  
  
Dad, the only ribs I want to think about are those slathered in BBQ sauce. The acerbity of the words was supposed to gently deflect his father's worry, but it was softened by an acknowledgement of the motivation behind the grilling. I'm fine. Stop worrying.  
  
Mark gave up, gratefully relaxing into the solid support being offered. He knew that the image of comforting strength projected by his son in times of crisis was no illusion. His courage, integrity and dependability were limitless. Yet, Mark was maybe the only person who couldn't merely accept that at face value. He was too achingly aware of the vulnerability behind the superman cloak and the fact that Steve's willingness to assume the forefront of defense always placed him first in the line of fire.  
  
Although Mark was frustrated at being a liability because of his ankle, he knew that he'd probably need help even if he wasn't lame. The darkness was so total he couldn't tell if the next step would carry him into a gaping chasm in the floor, a piece of furniture or further to safety. He strained his eyes to try to make sense of the dark blur surrounding him, but the shadows merely danced mockingly, creating brief, tantalising shapes then dissolving without providing discernible images.  
  
Steve's night vision, however, was excellent, and he led them unerringly, if slowly, on their way. Suddenly he froze, every muscle taut and, as Mark realised he was listening, he tried to still his own harsh breathing. Far away in the vast building was a faint sound of splintering wood, indicating they were no longer the sole occupants. No reflection of bright lights or shouts reached them to help them identify who had broken in, so Steve didn't offer any comment on the noise they'd both heard but with a quiet, let's go, he took a firmer grip on Mark's arm and they proceeded at a faster pace. Mark let the cues from Steve's body guide him -- slight tensing put him on alert, total muscle lock placed him on red alert. He wasn't sure if his son was familiar with the layout of the building or if he was trusting his instincts, but he seemed to wind his way with confidence through the confusing maze of rooms, halls and stairways.  
  
Despite the fact that Steve was supporting most of his weight, Mark found their mode of locomotion increasingly exhausting, and it became progressively harder to ensure the silent passage that circumstances demanded. Sensing his distress, Steve allowed them a break in the next room they passed through. He guided his father to a corner and lowered him behind a solid object that Mark was unable to identify in the dark. His voice came as a quiet murmur against Mark's ear, the gentle hiss tickling, although Mark was far from laughing. I need to scout around. Stay here and I'll be right back.  
  
Mark slumped against the wall, concentrating on easing air into his aching lungs as quietly as possible. As his heart rate slowed to a more manageable level, he was able to take more of an interest in his surroundings. He ran a gentle hand sideways in exploration and surmised that his shelter was a desk, abandoned abruptly by its owner when the business collapsed.  
  
The faint brushing of cloth alerted him to the presence of another, and his eyes strained to pierce the darkness, unsure if his son had returned or less welcome company had entered the room. Just as a darker shadow detached itself from the general background, a faint whisper of, It's me, Dad, relieved his anxieties.  
  
Again a soft murmur intended for him alone reached his ears. They've got someone on the side door. There's no other way out that's near enough, so we have to get past him. I'm going to take him out and come back for you. Be very quiet, I don't know how many of them there are.  
  
Mark swallowed, hoping that taking someone out' was not as lethal as it sounded, and suddenly remembering that Steve had been a soldier before he had been a cop, learning stealth and survival on the harsh, unforgiving fields of Vietnam.  
  
His cheeks puffed out in a silent sigh at the prospect of more agonised minutes sitting passively while his son risked his life. _I hate waiting_ -- his thoughts unknowingly were running along the same lines as Steve's had earlier.  
  
To pass the time more palatably, he tried to concentrate on unraveling some strands of the tangled mass of deception that entwined them. An insight into the identity of the individual masterminding the operation was teasing his subconscious when he was jolted from his mental reverie by a strange sensation. There was no sound or sight to which he could ascribe the intuition, but suddenly he knew with certainty that someone was standing at the door to the room. Fear crawled along the skin of his arms, raising the fine hairs. The silence grew intense, a physical pressure assaulting his ears, and he knew his unseen companion was listening too, waiting for the least sound from Mark to betray his whereabouts. Mark resisted the temptation to search around for a weapon; every muscle was motionless, if tense, but his heart ricocheted around the cage of ribs enclosing it like a ping pong ball on crack, and he felt that the thundering from that alone would give away his location. Time itself seemed suspended with no external reference to ground him in the sensory deprivation of blackness, except for a sixth sense of preternatural awareness sharpened by dread.  
  
Suddenly, Mark was bathed in a soft blush of red light, the muted glow of a flashlight that was not meant to be seen from outside the building. Accustomed to the darkness, it seemed bright to Mark and he shrank back as it traveled round the room, briefly illuminating each corner and allowing him to see the dimensions and pitiful opportunities for shelter available in the space. A tiny squeak signaled a footstep deeper in the room, and an icy brand of terror seared down the muscles of both cheeks as he realised that a few more steps would expose him. His safe haven had turned into a trap from which there was no escape. The angle of the light changed slightly as its bearer edged forward, and Mark felt an almost irresistible urge to stand up and reveal his whereabouts to spare himself the agony of anticipation of discovery.  
  
Perhaps mercifully, the end came swiftly. There was a swift shuffle of feet, and then the light was shining in his eyes. Mark could only make out a vague silhouette of the man holding the light, but there was sufficient illumination to see the metallic blood-red glare reflecting off the gun in his hand.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11  
  
Unsure whether or not to expect a bullet, and unwilling to meet his end cowering in a corner, Mark used his good foot to push himself upright, sliding up the wall until he was standing. He knew shots would bring Steve and prayed that his son would not run into a bullet in his haste to investigate. For a moment, neither man spoke, and Mark held a vague hope that his disheveled appearance might lead the gunman to believe that he was merely an indigent who had crawled into the building to escape the elements. He remembered his attempts to wipe his face and imagined that the smeared makeup would contribute to a very strange disguise. However, that small hope was dashed as the man called in an urgent whisper.  
  
Hansen, come here. This summons produced his associate who, even in the sliding, distorted shadows, was obviously enormous. Mark mentally christened him King Kong' as the man let out an unpleasant laugh on seeing him.  
  
Dr. Sloan, I presume. Frisk him, Tony.  
  
Mark suffered the intrusive inspection of probing hands without protest, grateful that Steve still had possession of the notebook. As Tony finished, he moved away with a parting shove that conveyed his frustration at the unproductive search and almost caused the doctor to lose his precarious balance.  
  
Where is your son, Dr. Sloan? Hansen's voice was assessing and coldly menacing.  
  
I sprained my ankle. Mark gestured at his swollen extremity, deliberately playing up his helplessness. So he went for help. On the spur of the moment, it was the best Mark could think of to hide his expectation of Steve's imminent return. Since the two of you are here, maybe you could help me. Mark didn't expect anything but intimidation from them but, if his son was in earshot, he would understand he was being fed information.  
  
Mark's one certainty was that Steve would soon be back, but he had no idea how his son would tackle such a difficult situation, outnumbered and hampered as he was by the dark and their need for silence. The element of surprise seemed their only advantage.  
  
To his chagrin, Hansen didn't accept this answer. Reaching out a meaty hand, he yanked his prisoner forward, and Mark could barely suppress a cry of pain as his weight fell on the injured ankle. Only the brutal grip on his arm prevented him from measuring his length on the ground. Then Marcus spun him around until he was restrained in front of the gunman, a brawny arm wrapped round Mark's throat. The casual ease with which he was manhandled scared Mark more than any threat and, with a dismal sense of deja vu, he felt the cold circle of a gun barrel pressed against his temple.  
  
Mark thoroughly resented being hauled around like a sack of moldy potatoes so, as a form of passive resistance, he sagged from the arm restraining him, forcing it to take as much weight as he dared without throttling himself, on the theory that eventually even this giant would tire and it might give him an opportunity to break free. Indignation at such treatment was soon buried under fear as the intent behind the thug's actions became clear. He started to resist, but his struggles against the restraint proved ineffectual, and he soon subsided, deciding it was more strategically advisable to keep some strength in reserve.  
  
Hansen called out. We've got your old man here and, if you don't want to see him hurt, you better get over here right now.  
  
I told you, he isn't here, Mark protested in as aggrieved a tone as was possible from such an undignified position. He hoped Steve would take the hint and stay in hiding. He can't answer if he eep... The last squawk was forced out as the arm tightened painfully on his larynx.  
  
With a click, a long, glistening knife appeared in front of Mark's eyes and, for a second, he went cross-eyed focusing on the menacing blade. You may be thinking that I won't risk firing a gun with so many cops close by, Hanson continued conversationally. Or that I would have qualms about hurting an elderly, unarmed man, but you'd be wrong on both counts. I'll give you to the count of ten before I tell Tony to start slicing pieces off him. I'll start with his hands; surgeon's hands aren't they? Well, he won't be doing any more surgery with a thumb missing.  
  
Mark tuned out the counting. Fear curdled his stomach, roiling the contents and forcing him to contemplate the strategic value of ralphing on his captor's shoes, but he reluctantly decided nothing could escape past the vice-like constriction around his throat. Although the threats were unnerving, he disregarded their application to himself, not because he thought it was a bluff, but because he knew without a doubt that Steve would not let it happen. His son was incapable of skulking in the shadows, despite the greater wisdom in that course of action, while Mark was threatened.  
  
Hansen had only got as far as three' when Steve materialised out of the darkness, standing in the doorway with his gun drawn. He was immediately targeted by the flashlight and became the cynosure of all eyes. Mark's guts were tied in a knot so tight he didn't think they would ever unravel, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the sight of his son bathed in the blood-red light, giving him a particularly gory appearance that Mark prayed was not prophetic.  
  
He looked so strong and unafraid standing tall in the doorway, yet the reality of his vulnerability cut Mark more deeply and painfully than any knife ever could. With Hansen holding his father as a shield, Steve couldn't fire on them, yet, if they chose, the gunmen could cut him down with impunity at any moment. Anguish thrummed through Mark's veins like an electric current, delivering a burning jolt to every nerve ending, leaving them twitching and quivering with the need to act. To stand helpless, watching, while his son was murdered just feet from him would be the worst torture he could envision, the mental equivalent of being slowly boiled in oil, unimaginably agonising. It was actually a consolation to realise that if Steve were killed, he would almost certainly be close behind.  
  
Across the darkness, Steve's eyes met his with a shock of connection, though Mark was unsure how clearly his son could see him. He was only yards away, but between them was a yawning gulf, impossible to cross. Yet, Steve's gaze held a promise, a private message of determination and deliverance for his father to read.  
  
Let him go now. No one has to get hurt. Steve's voice held the perfect blend of cool command and controlled, but detached, menace -- professional tones honed over the years, designed to calm the situation while still conveying the serious consequences of defiance. He kept his gun and voice steady despite the frenzied terror that clamoured to be released at the sight of the gun pressed against his father's head. Staring into the light, it was hard to distinguish features, but, from the size of his father's captor, Steve was fairly sure it was Matt Hansen, an enforcer for the Ganza crime organisation, a man who used his immense brute strength cruelly and with great effect at the least excuse. Fear lodged like an icicle in the pit of his stomach, stabbing him viciously at the thought of his father in the hands of such an animal.  
  
His words had little effect. Hansen hefted Mark up higher with a grunt, his arm tightening bruisingly on his throat. Mark was using both hands to tug desperately at the strangling limb in an effort to loosen the hold enough to receive sufficient air.  
  
Steve fought back the panic as he felt Mark's life slipping away from him like sand through desperately grasping fingers. He couldn't see clearly enough to risk firing at Hansen. He couldn't even bring himself to point the gun anywhere near his father, choosing instead to level it at the smaller man, Tony the Weasel.  
  
Hansen's laugh was that of a man who held all the cards plus a few extra aces up his sleeve. I don't think you understand the situation, Sloan. You're going to put down _your_ gun and then you're going to give me Latiere's account book or I'm going to start filling your father full of holes. Mark felt the gun shift away from his temple to be thrust against his ribs. I think at point blank range, his body will muffle the sound of the shots and prevent unwanted attention, don't you?  
  
Mark's vision was swimming, grey dots obscuring the sight of his son, and he was barely clinging to consciousness, but he retained enough awareness to realise that if Steve surrendered his weapon, his son was essentially a dead man. He struggled wildly, fighting to force a warning past the agonising pressure on his throat, but incipient strangulation mangled his Steve don't' into an unrecognisable .  
  
Steve neatly sidestepped the issue by concentrating on the second half of the gunman's demand. I don't have the notebook on me, he asserted firmly. However, I know where it's hidden. If you leave my father here unharmed, I'll take you there.  
  
It was an effective bluff which, if accepted, would mean that, at least temporarily, Steve was indispensable, but in the long run, it was a dangerous ploy. Mark would back any play his son made, but he was terrified that Steve's plan would safeguard his father's life at the expense of his own.  
  
For the first time Hansen hesitated, one of his aces trumped. Where is it? he demanded at last.  
  
Now, if I told you that there would be nothing to stop you from killing us, would there? Steve replied pleasantly. First, let my father go.  
  
Now, if I let your father go, there'd be nothing to stop you from shooting us, would there? the large man responded in much the same tone.  
  
I don't suppose you could just take my word for that. Steve's smile was all teeth.  
  
No, while I hold your father, you'll do as I say, Hansen shouted, losing patience. Or I might just have Tony here slit his throat so you can watch him bleed to death.  
  
You hurt him and you'll be dead a second later, Steve snarled, fear bludgeoning through his professional discipline. Suddenly, he was no longer a police officer, as the threat pushed past his self-control and peeled back a layer of civilisation, leaving exposed the raw, elemental fury of a protective son. The savagery of his expression, the baleful glow in his eyes accentuated by the red light, caused Hansen to step back and reflexively tighten his grasp on Mark.  
  
Steve could tell his father was in danger of imminent strangulation, if Hansen didn't accidentally snap his neck first. He fought for control of his emotions, realising that he needed to calm the situation quickly. He should never have allowed Hansen to needle him -- his father was paying for that mistake. He held out a conciliatory hand, palm out.  
  
Nobody has to get hurt, he repeated. We each have something the other wants. We can both come away from this as winners. I just want my father back. You want the notebook. I'm willing to give it to you in exchange for my father.  
  
For a moment, all was quiet in the tomb-like room. Shadows bobbed and weaved as the flashlight jiggled in Tony's nervous grasp. Tension stretched in an almost visible chord in the battle of wills between Hansen and Steve, the big man's almost inhuman strength matched by Steve's implacable intensity and determination to save his father.  
  
Hansen agreed, slowly. We have a deal. But first, you drop the gun.  
  
Sensing Steve's obvious refusal, he unleashed his brutality. You have till the count of five, and then I start shooting holes in your father. One...  
  
Mark willed his son to reject the stipulation and find some other alternative. He remembered watching a movie with a similar stand-off, where the cop unexpectedly shot the hostage, causing the captor to release him in surprise, opening himself up to a shot. That would be preferable to Steve leaving himself defenseless. However, in his heart, Mark knew his son was incapable of voluntarily hurting him.  
  
  
  
They all knew that if Steve dropped his gun, he could be forced to reveal the whereabouts of the notebook by similar threats to Mark. But what other options did he have?  
  
  
  
In despair, Mark watched the progression of emotions playing across his son's face -- resistance fading into compliance.  
  
Just as Hansen reached four', Steve capitulated, Okay, okay, don't hurt him. He held both hands up and allowed the gun to slip from his grasp until it was swinging from a finger in the trigger guard. Slowly, he crouched down, never taking his eyes of Hansen, and placed the gun on the ground, then, with a little sideways shove of his foot, he kicked it towards their assailants.  
  
As Tony scuttled forward to take the weapon, Hansen relaxed his hold on Mark's throat enough for him to take a large, painful whoop of breath, his starving lungs straining for more oxygen. His respiratory distress, however, did not blind him to the fact that Hansen's gun was now pointing at Steve. His son was still standing, arms held out non-threateningly at his sides and regarding the gunman steadily.  
  
The earlier tenuous balance of power had shifted completely in favor of Hansen, and his malicious smile of victory signaled his enjoyment of this newfound control. The moment hung fraught with possibilities, and Hansen was indulging himself by considering the more sadistic ones. His orders were simple: -- to retrieve the notebook and dispose of the Sloans and anyone else who'd seen the book. No one had specified the order in which these events had to occur. Reluctantly, he decided that, until he actually verified the whereabouts of Latiere's insurance', he couldn't risk dispatching the troublesome police officer in front of him. However, that didn't mean he couldn't damage him in some way. After all, he was too dangerous to be allowed to roam freely even with his father held hostage against his good behaviour.  
  
A well-placed bullet would assert his authority, debilitate his adversary and undermine the morale that might lead to a strike for freedom. For all his rationalising, Hansen knew that what he really wanted to do was to see fear in the face of the man who had defied him and now confronted him so coolly. He straightened his arm and aimed the gun, purposefully choosing an area to target.


	12. Chapter 12

Fugitives 12  
  
As he concentrated his efforts on terrorising his intended victim, Hansen discounted the older man who was still loosely restrained by his left arm.  
  
Mark sensed the tension of decision in his captor's body and, correlating it with the deliberate targeting of his gun arm, he came to the obvious conclusion and reacted violently and instinctively to save his son. With all the strength he could muster -- and he found reserves he would not have thought possible moments before -- he jammed his elbow back into the solid wall of flesh behind him. Simultaneously, he launched an attack with the only weapon left to him, his teeth, sinking them into the wrist just under his mouth.  
  
With the roar of an enraged bull, the giant shook him loose with the ease of a horse shrugging off a fly. In the split second Mark was airborne, he saw his son spring into motion, but the shock of impact against the wall caused him to lose his bearings. Two shots rang out almost as one. The light swooped up and around dizzily then fell, blinking feebly, against the wall so only the faintest of red glows illuminated the room. Even dazed, Mark remembered that, of the three men, his son was the only one unarmed but, before despair had the chance to lodge in his heart, he was offered desperate, if bemused, hope by the obvious sounds of fighting still ensuing. Through the swirling eddies of dust thrown out by the struggle, he could make out a writhing mass of bodies with the occasional clear outline of a fist and once a knife.  
  
Mark's mind frantically did the math. Tony had been the one menacing him with the knife, so it made sense that it was Steve and Tony wrestling on the floor. But what had happened to Hansen? Although he yearned to provide his son with assistance, he couldn't chance being taken hostage again, knowing Steve would allow himself to be shot rather than risk his father's life. Hoping that the continued sounds of struggle would mask his movements, he cast around for any possible means of offense. His fingers closed on a piece of pipe, and he hefted it experimentally, unsure of his ability to wield it effectively, but willing to try. While Mark crawled around trying to locate Hansen, with bloodthirsty thoughts of cracking him on the head, the sounds of struggle ceased. Fear gelled in an icy layer around his heart as he waited for the revelation of the victor's identity, terrified he'd left it too late to help his son. He hoisted the pipe with grim intent, his heart thundering in his ears and his breath harsh on his abused throat.  
  
Steve's voice was frantic with worry, but it was music to his father's ears.  
  
I'm here, he replied...or at least that's what he had intended to reply. But, to his surprise, a croak came out. His larynx was bruised and swollen from the earlier assault, and the sounds that issued from his mouth were unintelligible and hardly reassuring. In a second, Steve was beside his father, clasping his shoulders with both hands and trying to determine the extent of his injuries. The relief that his son had once more dodged the slings and arrows that fortune had so liberally scattered in his path was overwhelming. There was so much Mark wanted to say, expressions of love, relief and gratitude that, if he could have spoken, he thought he would be babbling by now. The need to express himself as well as to reassure his son impelled him to communicate his emotions in the only way he could, and he pulled Steve into a deep, heartfelt hug. For a split second, Steve stiffened in surprise, concerned that Mark was concealing a serious injury, but then he relaxed, reciprocating the hug.  
  
Neither felt immediately inclined to break the embrace that offered an oasis of calm and comfort in the wilderness of violence and suspense they had recently experienced. The darkness froze the moment, pure and private, breaking through normal reticence as they drew strength from one another. Mark could feel the fine, sharp tremors shuddering through his son's body, mute evidence of the recent stress he had experienced. The contact was like soothing balm on an inflamed wound, calming and warming him.  
  
Steve was the first to pull away, replacing his hands on his father's shoulders and giving him a small shake. As he spoke, his voice was thicker than usual. What is it with you? Did you inadvertently take out membership in Psychos R'Us' or is it your aftershave that collects them like flies? I can't tell you how incredibly tired I am of watching people stick a gun to your head. If I went the rest of my life without it happening again, it would be too soon!  
  
It was a long speech from his usually taciturn son, and it was a fair indication of the strength of his feelings. Mark's laugh in response was genuine, if a trifle shaky, but he felt remarkably energised. It was amazing how cathartic a hug could be and, as a doctor, he should remember that. Well, if you insist. Actually, I'm a trifle tired of it myself. He found that whispering was easier on his bruised larynx than normal speech. But it also reminded Steve of the trauma his father had just endured.  
  
How badly are you hurt? he enquired anxiously.  
  
My throat's rather sore, but otherwise I'm just fine. With the renewal of Mark's spirits, his unquenchable curiosity resurfaced. What happened to Hansen?  
  
I shot him, Steve replied tersely, not tempted to expand either on the particulars of the occasion or his feelings on the matter.  
  
Mark peered through the darkness, trying to read his expression. But you didn't have a gun, he pointed out reasonably.  
  
This time he could hear a justifiable smugness in Steve's voice. Yes, I did. I had taken one off the guard on the side door, who, by the way, will probably be waking up soon. I had it tucked into the back of my pants, but I had to make my reluctance to give up my own gun appear realistic.  
  
I should have trusted you, Mark said remorsefully. I could have got you killed with that fool stunt. I was so afraid he was going to shoot you.  
  
On the contrary, you did exactly the right thing. I needed a distraction to get the gun out, and you provided that perfectly -- thank you.  
  
As Mark sat there, the sense of peace created by his son's words changed to anxiety as he clued in to another piece of information -- a wet patch that had soaked though his son's shirt and transferred itself to his. You're bleeding, he said accusingly.  
  
I don't think your stitches were equal to the struggle, Steve obfuscated. He didn't see any point in adding that Tony's knife had found its mark more than once. He knew none of the cuts were too deep or dangerous, and there was little his father could do in the dark, so the information would only worry him.  
  
Suppressing a groan, Steve got to his feet and walked over to pick up the flashlight. A knock with the heel of his hand was all it took to restore it to working order. This should come in handy, he observed. OK, Dad, we've nearly reached our bolt hole. Do you feel up to moving again?  
  
Mark nodded his assent, stretching limbs that had already stiffened in the respite from action. I'm surprised we haven't have company yet, he commented.  
  
Steve shrugged, not wanting to admit that, for a short time, he'd forgotten entirely about the outside threat in his relief that Mark had survived the more immediate danger. The shots would have been muffled, and it would have been nearly impossible to tell which direction they came from in this labyrinth of buildings, but I expect we're running out of time.  
  
Well, I'm ready, willing and just about able. Mark stretched a hand towards his son. Help an old man up?  
  
Steve snorted. The only thing old about you is that hat you insist on wearing when we go fishing. He hoisted his father to his feet, ignoring the tearing pain that ripped down his side, and gently wound his father's arm over his shoulders. He knew the exertion must be uncomfortable for Mark too, and wished he could spare him the necessity of further activity. He kept up an encouraging monologue as they made their way out of the building, making one short stop to recover the notebook, which he had thrust into the first convenient hidey-hole he'd found.  
  
Outside, the moon had gone down and the sky was lit only by the ubiquitous orange glow reflected from the lights of LA. Mark's breath rasped painfully in his bruised throat, but he refused to utter any complaint or slow them down any more, their recent experience reinforcing his understanding of how dangerous delay could be. He concentrated only on keeping the exchange of weight from his good leg to his left arm slung over Steve's shoulder as smoothly rhythmic as possible, and he was surprised when Steve came to a sudden halt near a small shed. It took him a moment to realise that the man-hole cover they were standing next to was their destination.  
  
he queried hoarsely, unable to keep the note of distaste out of his voice, the thought of crawling through the detritus of human waste more than he wanted to contemplate.  
  
Actually, it's a maintenance tunnel to the Red Line. Steve was crouching next to the entrance and twisted his head up to smile at his father. Hey, there are limits to what I'd do to escape.  
  
The Metro? Mark was still a little doubtful.  
  
Hopefully, no one else here knows of its existence and it should be overlooked, especially in the dark.  
  
Steve inserted two fingers into the holes on either side of the metal disc. It was heavy and immensely difficult to lift with such a precarious hold, and the rim bit painfully into his fingers, but he succeeded in lifting it enough to elevate it out of the hole. He rested it gingerly on the size of the opening and pushed it the rest of the way.  
  
The flashlight revealed metal rungs embedded in the concrete walls of a circular shaft, and they both peered down curiously.  
  
You'll need to go first, Dad, so I can replace the lid. Can you manage it? Steve's misgivings swelled into active trepidation as he stared down the hole. When he had envisaged this way of escape, he hadn't anticipated his father would be hurt. The shaft was deep, and a slip could cause a serious injury, or worse, but their options were severely limited.  
  
Mark flexed his fingers like a magician before an illusionary trick. With two good hands and one foot, no problem, he stated confidently.  
  
He sat sideways on the edge of the shaft, his good foot resting on the second rung, then swung himself in with an athletic twist. Holding on strongly with both hands, he hopped his good foot down to the next level. It wasn't the fastest or most graceful mode of descent, but it worked. Steve illuminated his passage as best he could, offering advice and feeling like an anxious parent at the playground. Despite his preoccupation with his father's progress, he also kept half an eye on their surroundings to ensure their departure went uninterrupted. The glow of lights behind the boarded windows of the building they'd recently vacated informed him that the police were closing in on their position.  
  
We're going to have company soon, Dad, he warned his father. Just stay where you are for now. I'm coming down.  
  
Steve placed the cover partially over the hole, leaving himself just enough room to squeeze through the gap, then he duplicated his father's earlier moves until he was in the shaft. It was hard maneuvering the lid from below, with only one hand available for the task, but eventually it slipped into place with a dull clang which he hoped no sharp ears had overheard. He hurried down the ladder until he had nearly reached Mark, then removed the flashlight from his pocket to assist him in completing his descent.  
  
As Steve reached the bottom, he dusted off his fingers and shone the flashlight around to survey their surroundings. The illumination it provided was minimal, so he removed the red filter that had been attached to the top, and the pure white light that emanated was a relief to them both after the malevolent red glow. It revealed a sizable, semi-circular tunnel, the walls loosely covered with a dingy plastic lining. Steve was grateful neither of them was claustrophobic, but even the thought made him involuntarily cast the light upwards to check on the condition of the ceiling, hoping there was no danger of collapse.  
  
A hoarse chuckle told him Mark had followed his pessimistic train of thought, and he swung the light round to his father, noticing the white strain dusted around his mouth, although his eyes still brimmed with good humour.  
  
Where are the rails? Mark whispered, deflecting the worry he sensed behind the perusal.  
  
As he had intended, the question redirected the beam to the ground. I think this was part of the Mid-City Extension that they had to abandon because of the discovery of hydrogen sulfide in the soil.  
  
That's toxic even at very low concentrations, Mark remarked with concern. We'd better keep moving.  
  
They had their teamwork down to a fine art, but still their progress became increasingly laborious as time passed. Mark had already expended his reserves of strength and was stumbling along on sheer stubbornness alone. Steve braced him as far as he was able, wishing that his father would simply lose consciousness and he could carry him. It would be preferable to feeling him suffer through every strained breath, the shudders of exhaustion shaking his father transmitting themselves to Steve's body.  
  
Steve insisted on frequent breaks, and Mark no longer protested. This time, he sank down, head bowed, shoulders heaving, fatigue evident in every drooping line of his body. Steve refused to acknowledge his own weariness and prowled around, every surreptitious glance at the subdued figure of his father fueling the anger that spurred his restless movements.  
  
For the last two days, his one goal had been to keep his father safe, yet he had failed miserably to accomplish that seemingly simple objective. At every turn, his choices had only been between the lesser of two evils: to run or be arrested, to engage in a high speed pursuit or surrender and, more recently, to drop his weapon or risk a shot. Each decision had further endangered Mark's life, and now he felt like a heel, forcing his father to keep moving when he was so clearly at the end of his endurance. He wanted to reconnoiter to find the easiest path back above ground but, with Mark's penchant for finding trouble, he had no intention of leaving him alone again.  
  
He paced some more. Despite the compulsion to keep going and seek safety, he couldn't bring himself to force Mark to his feet again. His father would have to be the one to decide to resume the trek.  
  
His father's hoarse voice brought him immediately to his side.  
  
Yeah, Dad?  
  
I'm sorry, this is too slow.  
  
Take as long as you need, Steve answered gently. We've shaken them off for now, so there's no hurry. Take a nap if you need to.  
  
Mark shook his head resolutely. If they do find us in here, we'll be sitting ducks. There's nowhere to hide. Help me up.  
  
For a moment, Steve stared down at him, noticing the dark tendrils of shadows that seemed to bleed furtively in at the corners of his eyes. He recognised the truth of that sentiment, but hated its necessity. Just a bit further, he acquiesced eventually, taking as much of his father's weight as he could.  
  
They staggered on, each driven by their personal demons of fear. The end of the tunnel was marked by a thick plastic sheet hanging down across the entrance. The prospect of an end to this interminable journey bolstered both their spirits. On the other side of the makeshift curtain, a gentle curve led them onto the main Metro tracks. In each direction, the double tracks of the Red line disappeared into snug, dark tunnels. Steve pulled up a mental map of the area, trying to envision the best direction to choose.  
  
There was no service passageway besides these tracks, so their progress would necessitate walking actually along the rails. For the first time, Mark balked.  
  
You know, in every movie I've watched like this, the moment someone steps onto a train track, their foot gets stuck and along comes a train and splat...they're pate. His smile was lopsided with fatigue. Are you sure we're not going become train fodder?  
  
The trains have stopped for the night, Steve asserted with more confidence than he felt, the spectre of that very nightmare ghosting along his nerves. They don't start again until 4:30. That gives us... he shone the flashlight on his wrist, ...almost two hours. More to the point, we need to avoid barbecuing ourselves on the live rail, which would be.... that one. He illuminated the danger, running the light along the lethal rail and back.  
  
Are you sure? Mark's eyes followed the light as it moved hypnotically back and forth.  
  
Hey, if there's one thing I know, it's BBQ. Besides, I intend for us to take the first maintenance tunnel out. They have surveillance cameras at every station, so we can't go as far as that.  
  
Steve chose the right-hand tunnel, not because it offered any more promise than the opposite direction, but because it kept him between his father and the live rail. An inadvertent stumble was only too likely in their exhausted state, and could have lethal consequences. He wasn't taking any more chances with Mark's life.  
  
There was a pervading stench of machine oil and, underlying it, a more subtle odor of damp. The silence and darkness were oppressive, and Steve found himself straining his ears for the rumble of an approaching train.  
  
Walking single file beside the rails wouldn't have been difficult, but their current three-legged hop-and-shuffle was nearly impossible since it necessitated Steve walking between the actual rails. Their progress became a nightmare of balancing and stumbling, and Steve couldn't have been more relieved when the flashlight finally revealed another maintenance shaft off to the side.  
  
He left Mark resting at the bottom while he climbed up to explore. He wasn't sure if he could even open the hatch - it might be locked from above - or he might emerge in the middle of a busy street. The metal lid proved difficult to budge but, by bracing himself in the tunnel and using both hands, he managed to shift it. He peeked out cautiously, not wanting witnesses to his clandestine emergence. It was a street, but a small, deserted one, not that surprising for 3:30 in the morning, and he hurried back to give Mark the good news.  
  
Climbing up the rungs with only one good foot was much harder than descending had been, and Steve hovered closely behind his father, ready to avert potential disasters.  
  
Their luck held, and no one saw their undignified and furtive scramble out of the hole. The fresh air and relative illumination were invigorating, but neither of them were capable of going much further, and Steve picked the first promising alley as a place in which to rest.  
  
There were some flattened cardboard boxes outside the back door of a deli, and Steve used them to construct a flimsy shelter to provide them with warmth and protection against both the filth on the ground and prying eyes. Nothing, however, could remove the stench of stale urine and rotting garbage that pervaded the whole area. For all its deficiencies, it still provided a place to rest, and they collapsed down on the cardboard, shoulder to shoulder. Mark was bone tired, his ankle throbbed while his throat kept up a syncopated rhythm, and every limb felt like it had a two-ton weight attached.  
  
Even in the dim light, Steve could see his father's face was a pasty shade of gray that made him look old, and his eyes were dark and glittery, sunken in his face. As illogical as it was, Steve couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility for that exhaustion. His father had been pulled into his merciless, violent world, and he had been unable to protect him. The pain of that failure festered inside.  
  
Get some sleep, he encouraged the older man gently. We'll be safe here until morning.  
  
It wasn't long before Mark's head slipped sideways onto his son's shoulder, his neck twisted at an awkward angle. Steve shifted slightly to the side, allowing his father's weight to rest more fully against him, then he carefully slipped an arm around his father's waist, gently maneuvering him into a more comfortable position against his new pillow. Mark slept on, oblivious.  
  
Steve could feel the urgent pull of sleep, but fought against its insistent call, needing to protect the vulnerable man quietly snoring in his arms. He reached behind his back and, without jostling his burden, withdrew his gun, leaving it next to him for easy access. Then, he leaned his head back against the wall with a deep sigh. Intellectually, he knew that cardboard was too insubstantial a barrier to rely on for defense, yet, emotionally, he was oddly content with their small sanctuary. The interminable tension of being the quarry in a pitiless hunt was temporarily abated in the eerie quiet of the early morning.  
  
Sleeping in a cardboard box reduced life to its barest essentials, and in this strange crucible, the insignificant impurities of possessions, career and status were burnt away, allowing him to focus on the small, shiny, untarnished nugget of pure gold that remained. His father was alive and, for now, safe. He'd worry about how to keep him that way at daybreak.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13  
  
The clattering of cans thrown into the dumpster woke Mark with a start, and he instinctively pushed himself upright. The resulting "ooof" and strangely yielding nature of the surface against which he braced himself alerted him to his son's whereabouts.  
  
Still blinking blearily, he gazed at Steve. "I didn't know I was using you for a bed," he apologised. A glint of mischief lit in his eyes. "Who knew you could be so comfortable?"   
  
Steve yawned and started a stretch, which was quickly aborted as the movement pulled at his injuries, but he schooled any outward signs of pain. "Well, you make a pretty good blanket, so I guess we're even." He peered more closely at his father's neck. "You're working on some interesting colours there. How're you feeling?"  
  
Mark took a moment to assess his own condition. He was certainly sore from the unusual exertion the night before, and it hurt to swallow, but sleep, brief though it had been, had proven remarkably rejuvenating.  
  
"I feel fi.. great," he stated positively, narrowly missing his son's one-size-fits-all, any-occasion answer, the contrast to his misery of the day before lending credence in his own mind to the assertion.  
  
Steve regarded him with some amusement, recognising his own brand of prevarication. "Would that be, 'I can get up without falling down again' great or merely, 'I'm not actually dead yet' great?"  
  
Mark pretended to give the answer serious consideration. "More like chewed up and spat out but essentially in one piece." He volleyed his son's concern neatly. "You, on the other hand, look as if you were partly digested before being disgorged."  
  
Steve pulled a disgusted face. "That's a mental image I could have done without. Thanks, Dad."  
  
Although Mark joined in Steve's laughter, he was alarmed at his son's gaunt appearance, the younger man's pallor accentuated by both the dark shadows around his eyes and the stubble on his chin.  
  
"Did you get any sleep last night?" Mark caught the flicker of confirmation in his son's eyes before Steve looked away, ignoring the question in favor of a quick check outside their shelter for potential threats. Mark's heart constricted and his throat closed up with a sudden surge of love for his exasperatingly protective son, but it was quickly followed by an equally strong feeling of frustration with Steve's complete lack of concern for his own health. It was the latter emotion that caused him to protest gruffly into the vacated space. "You're not indestructible, you know."   
  
Mark assessed his son more carefully as he crawled back into their makeshift lodgings, and closer inspection showed that the lower half of Steve's shirt was stiff with dried blood.  
  
He reached out gently. "You shouldn't have lost that much blood. Let me have a look."  
  
Steve fended off his hand, trying to infuse his rejection with some humour. "I don't think looking is going to do much good, and there's not much else you can do with the dearth of medical supplies around here. Besides, if you try to separate shirt and skin, it'll probably start the bleeding again."  
  
Mark looked unconvinced, but, before he could pursue the matter further, Steve asked him the question that he had realised during the night would be pivotal in deciding their next move.  
  
"How's your foot doing?" Steve tried to sound casual.  
  
Mark flexed his ankle experimentally. "Better than it was last night, but it's not going to take my weight for any length of time," he answered honestly, realising that the issue was too important to sugar-coat.   
  
A slight tensing in Steve's shoulders was the only indication of his disappointment with the answer. "Dad, we can't hide on the streets indefinitely. Although it isn't a bad place to evade the police, organised crime has too many feelers to make it a viable option. All it would take is one junkie in need of a fix."  
  
Mark followed his line of thought effortlessly. "So, we can't both stay but neither can we both go, since hobbling through the streets would make us way too conspicuous."  
  
Steve had rotated the options endlessly through his head, evaluating the pros and cons of each all night. Mark could see the misery on his son's face as he reached the same conclusion Steve had reached during the night. "So, you need to go and arrange an alternate form of transportation for me," he said lightly, trying to dispel the aura of despondency that hung nubilously over them. He had the feeling Steve would be pacing if there had been any room in the cardboard construction.  
  
Steve nodded. "I can see two choices there. I can continue to pursue my criminal career and purloin the first easily available vehicle, or I can go to Pete's grocery for the car Jesse promised. That is less risky but will take more time."  
  
"Don't take any unnecessary risks," Mark immediately responded. "I'll be fine, just sitting here in my cardboard box, resting."  
  
"FINE!" Steve burst out. The word echoed dully in their cardboard surroundings, causing him to lower his volume to a more temperate level. "Based on past experience, I'd say the odds reach almost certainty that, by the time I get back, someone will have a gun stuck to your head. Leaving you alone is like sending an engraved invitation to every criminal and psycho in the city to kidnap you."  
  
Mark smiled at the humour but, behind the exaggeration, he could read his son's very real concern. "There's no reason any one should even know I'm here," he pointed out reasonably. "I'll just sit quietly."  
  
"It's probably trash collection day," Steve muttered morosely. "They'll cart you off to the landfill. Look, will you at least take my gun?"  
  
Mark eyed the weapon apprehensively. "Now that would be dangerous. I'd probably shoot myself in the foot."  
  
"You could try to shoot someone else in the foot," Steve suggested helpfully. "It's not like you have to kill someone. It would just raise an alarm if you were attacked."  
  
Mark had been in the army and knew quite well how to handle a weapon. His concern wasn't even really about taking another life, but he had no intention of leaving his son unarmed. He changed the subject adroitly.  
  
"You know, you really can't wander around with all that gore on your shirt."  
  
Steve peered down at himself dubiously. "I look too much like a murderer?"  
  
"Actually, I was thinking more like a corpse," his father retorted dryly.  
  
Steve pondered the problem. "I could mug someone for their coat," he suggested innocently.  
  
"I think that you should try to find a genuine homeless person and pay them for _their_ coat. Until then, maybe you can find some newspaper and carry it strategically."  
  
Steve nodded, knowing he should leave but unable to bring himself to take the first step. Again, he was faced with the consequences of a decision that every instinct told him was wrong, but he could see no alternative.   
  
For a moment they sat in companionable silence, then Mark jabbed him with his elbow. "Watch yourself. You're the one more likely to face trouble. Remember, anyone could be an informant."   
  
"Yep, I'm off." His voice was tight with unspoken words and emotion as, with a final squeeze to his father's shoulder, he eased his way out of the little den he'd made and walked to the mouth of the alley, half-hoping his father would call him back. He had no trouble finding some newspaper which he deployed effectively, and he soon successfully procured not only a jacket but also a cap, although at a highly inflated price for the filthy, probably infested pieces of clothing they were. He cringed distastefully as he slipped the coat on over his ragged shirt. It had no buttons so he wrapped it round himself, holding it closed with one hand. He'd learnt an important lesson the day before, and hunched his shoulders, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, carefully not making eye-contact with any passerby. He hated the demeaning feeling it gave him and longed to stride out as he usually did, shoulders back, confronting life straight on, but he accepted that his disheveled appearance and subservient demeanor meant few people would give him a second glance, preferring to ignore the existence of those less fortunate than themselves. However, inevitably at some point he would come under the scrutiny of the police, who would not be so quick to dismiss him and he decided it was a safer bet to take the bus across the city to pick up the car.  
  
The driver was thankfully uninterested in his passengers and paid little attention as Steve deposited some coins, making his way to the back of the bus. The cap was pulled low over his eyes, and the newspaper provided an excuse for keeping his features hidden. As a final deterrent to potentially friendly travelers wishing to attempt conversation, the smell emanating from his jacket kept people at a distance. The rhythmic swaying of the bus nearly sent him to sleep, but the fear of detection coupled with worry for Mark were sufficient to counteract the soporific effects of the movement.  
  
As the bus completed its route, Steve decided not to risk a transfer but to complete the journey on foot. He slouched out, resisting the urge to look around to see if anyone was taking an inordinate interest in his movements. His filthy clothes and disreputable appearance seemed to achieve the objective of making him invisible, and he reached Dave's grocery without being accosted. By the time he arrived, he was feeling light-headed and exhausted and realised that only a general feeling of nausea was keeping hunger at bay since he'd only eaten once in the last two days. Lack of sustenance and sleep, coupled with blood-loss, were contributing to his general feeling of malaise.  
  
It wasn't a big parking lot, but he looked around at the cars with some trepidation, knowing that skulking around feeling under mud flaps was a good way to get himself arrested for trespassing, if not for car theft, but Jesse had obviously anticipated his dilemma since he noticed a stethoscope serving as an unlikely ornament hanging from the rear-view mirror of a sturdy, but nondescript, Ford. Resting a casual hand on the hood, he could feel a faint trace of warmth indicating it had been left fairly recently. He walked to the rear and, after a surreptitious look around to ensure privacy, he stooped and found the keys in the promised position. Sliding behind the wheel with a sigh of relief, he wasted no time exploring the intriguing boxes in the back of the car, but set off at once, in a hurry to retrace his steps and retrieve his father.  
  
Steve passed several cop cars on the way, but he was confident that there was no reason for them to be interested in his vehicle, and merely kept his face averted. He was driving mostly on auto-pilot, too tired to think, but, in the absence of active occupation, he couldn't repress the tendency of his mind to throw up disturbing images as it cycled through the endless ways his father could have found trouble. Impatience and worry weighed down his foot, but attracting official attention by speeding would not help Mark, and he made a conscious effort to restrain the tendency to accelerate.  
  
He pulled directly into the mouth of the alley, hoping to be gone before the car attracted comment, and thinking it would be less noticeable than Mark's limping progress to a convenient parking space. There was no movement from within the pile of cardboard as he approached.  
  
"Dad?" His voice emanated as a croak as fear sucked the moisture from his throat. There was no response and, for a long moment, Steve just stood rooted in place, unwilling to take the final step of confirming his father was gone. Then, with a violent sweep of his arm, he knocked the roof off the makeshift shelter. It was empty, and the air left his lungs in a great whoosh, partly in despair, but also in relief, as he realised that, subconsciously, he had feared the silence might have had an even more ominous explanation.  
  
Now the thought had crossed his mind, he looked around in panic, visually exploring the recesses of the alley with frantic eyes, not spotting anything that would alleviate his concern or exacerbate it. He even levered himself up to the top of the dumpster to check its contents, but it contained only remnants of food and other garbage.  
  
Defeated, he made his way back to the pile of cardboard and slid down, his head buried in his arms. He had no idea where to look for Mark or what his next move should be. Every particle of initiative and energy had drained away, leaving him as empty and inert as an ancient, hollow log, while guilt drummed a painful tune on his taut shoulders. He should never have left Mark here alone.  
  
Grimly, he clawed his way back from the edge of despair, allowing his professional training to kick in and analyse the situation, assessing the alley as a crime scene. There was no blood, which was one small drop of comfort in an ocean of bleakness. In fact, the area hadn't been disturbed at all; the flashlight was still sitting upright where he'd left it. Surely, at the very least, his cardboard construction would have been destroyed if Mark had been taken by force.  
  
He dropped his head back against the wall with a dull thud, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together to make a coherent picture, but his brain seemed to have decomposed and they just floated lazily in the mush which was all that remained. Maybe Mark had...  
  
"Steve! You're back!"  
  
The familiar voice caused his head to jerk back, this time slamming into the brick with enough force to make him consider the possibility that his father's face floating above him was some kind of concussive hallucination. Other people might get stars or tweeting birds forming a dancing circle around their heads, he got multiple Mark Sloans.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
It took him a minute to realise that his father was in fact standing on top of the three stairs that led up to the back door of the deli where he had obviously been passing the time.  
  
The worry that had simmered underground finally found its way to the surface and erupted in a geyser of adrenaline that would have put Old Faithful to shame. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" The rational part of his mind was shocked that he'd just sworn at his father but, after the depths of fear he had just experienced, he bypassed relief for anger. However, one look at the contrition and concern on his father's face and his fury deflated like a tire with a slow leak, leaving only exhaustion. He shouldn't be surprised; he was well acquainted with his father's capacity for making new friends instantly in the most unusual of circumstances.  
  
"Just get in the car. We need to go," he said dully.  
  
Mark poked his head back inside the door, calling out a farewell, then hopped nimbly down the steps, using the rail as a prop. Steve assisted him into the car and then drove off in silence for a few minutes. Steve was trying to find the words to frame an apology, but his father beat him to it.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Steve. I really didn't think you'd be back so quickly. Juan saw me out there and invited me in for some food. I thought it would look more suspicious if I rejected his offer, but I was trying to keep an eye out for you."  
  
"It's fine, Dad. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have..."  
  
"Look, Steve," Mark interrupted him gently. "When you were about four years old, we went to a festival in some park -- I don't remember where now, but it was crowded with people. Your mother was carrying Carol and she stepped off to the side to buy an icecream from a vendor. Someone asked me a question and, I swear, it took only a few seconds to answer but, when I looked back, you were gone. Apparently, you'd decided to find your Mom, thinking she'd gone back to the car. Anyway, I was frantic, searching everywhere, calling your name, but I couldn't find you. Suddenly, there you were, skipping towards me, leading a policeman by the hand. You'd done everything right. You'd realised you were lost, found a policeman and given him enough information to find us again. I was so proud of you, yet, I remember kneeling down in front of you and shaking you, yelling something like 'what were you thinking?'"  
  
"So," Steve summarized wryly. "You're saying that it was a perfectly natural reaction."  
  
"Yep," Mark returned, then, after a pause, "For a parent, anyway."  
  
Steve laughed, realising that somehow that said something profound about their relationship if he just had the mental energy to figure it out.  
  
Mark gave his knee a last squeeze and turned his attention to the boxes in the back of the car, pulling one onto his lap. He dove into it with the enthusiasm of a child opening a Christmas present.  
  
Near the top he found a letter addressed to them both. "This is perfect," he said approvingly. "Listen. Jesse says that Dr. Katherine Hart started her two-week vacation today in the Bahamas. Susan is supposed to be house sitting, so she has the key and the combination to the burglar alarm, and what neighbours there are won't be surprised if they see lights, but it's fairly isolated."  
  
Steve didn't want to admit that he hadn't even thought of a destination but was driving aimlessly. This would solve one of their major problems and provide a quiet and safe haven to recuperate and plan their next move.  
  
"Thank God for Jesse," he commented fervently.  
  
As Mark continued his explorations, Steve had another small bone to pick. "So, you've had some breakfast?" he asked casually, but pointedly.  
  
Mark looked abashed. "Well, just a little. There was a cup of coffee and a sandwich and..." his voice trailed off guiltily, and he mumbled. "...a plateofbaconandeggs."  
  
A rumble from Steve's stomach punctuated the silence that followed, and sent Mark diving back in the box from which he emerged triumphantly wielding a granola bar. He unwrapped it and waved it in front of his son's face in the form of a white flag.  
  
Steve regarded it judiciously, allowing them both a moment of unfavorable comparison between his breakfast and his father's before gulping it down in two bites, by which time another had made its way to his hand.  
  
It was a scanty meal, but it went a considerable way to buoying his spirits, as did the prospect of a shower, a bed and a place of safety --- not necessarily in that order.  
  
While he kept a sharp eye out for trouble, Mark kept him amused by inventorying the contents of the boxes. Jesse and his helpers had been busy. He'd thought of everything, from spare clothes to medical supplies, a laptop computer and two cell phones with a text messaging system. He'd also included copies of recent newspapers, complete with journalistic hyperbole and speculation about their case. Mark read a few articles aloud, editing out the more personal attacks and comments.  
  
Dr. Hart's house was as isolated as Jesse had promised. A long driveway led away from the road, and the curvature of the hillside coupled with strategically planted trees hid it from neighbouring eyes. Inside, it was neatly, yet luxuriously, furnished, although at this point a seedy motel would have seemed like the Hilton.  
  
"I need a shower." Steve had his priorities established, throwing his recently acquired jacket and cap in the trash with satisfaction.  
  
"Far be it from me to argue with an undeniable truth," Mark teased, "but you really shouldn't get that laceration wet."  
  
"No, Dad, you don't understand. I need a shower." Steve resorted to wheedling in desperation. "I feel like I'm crawling. This shirt needs soaking off anyway, and I'm sure the blood poisoning I'd get from all this crud would be far worse than any damage I could do."  
  
At the pleading look he found reminiscent of a six-year-old wanting a few more minutes in the bath, Mark relented. "Don't use all the hot water. I'd like one too."  
  
The shower helped relax muscles that had been locked in almost permanent tension for the last two days. For long minutes he simply stood, arms crossed, leaning against the cool tile wall, his head pillowed in his arms as he allowed the pulsing jet of water to massage his lower back. His groans of appreciation were masked not only by the sound of the water, but by Mark crooning an old ballad while he shaved at the sink.  
  
Mark had more than a few words of censure and reproof when Steve emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped round his hips, revealing the most recent additions to his injuries, but he cleaned, disinfected and stitched the wounds with grim deliberation. Then, he wrapped his son's torso using a large proportion of Jesse's generous supply of bandages.  
  
"Dad, I look more like a mummy than a person," Steve protested as he looked down at his chest.  
  
"Well, I'm finished, so now you can go to bed," Mark returned patiently, tucking in the end of the last dressing.  
  
"There's too much to do, Dad," Steve objected.   
  
"Do you know how they removed the brains from mummies?" Mark remarked conversationally. "I could try it, assuming there are any brains to be found."  
  
Steve held his hands up in surrender, although he made no move in the direction of the bedrooms.  
  
"You are listing," Mark explained with exaggerated forbearance. "The Tower of Pisa has nothing on you. Bed, now!"  
  
The corners of Steve's mouth twitched. There's nothing like the strict repetition of that word to reduce a grown man to the emotional level of a child. Besides his father had a point.  
  
"Please, I can't carry you there or even help you. You have to make it there under your own steam and if you wait any longer it's not going to happen."  
  
"You're right, as usual. Just promise me you'll get some rest yourself."  
  
Steve limped towards the bedroom, but soon swung back. "And don't answer the door or the telephone, and don't wander off anywhere. That neon target on your forehead that flashes 'take me, take me' is working overtime."  
  
Securing his father's tolerant promise, Steve resumed his slow progress to what he assumed was the guest bedroom, which contained two double beds. He barely had time to pull up a sheet before falling fast asleep.  
  
When he awoke, he remembered where he was, but he couldn't figure out _when_ it was, and he lay lazily for a few minutes pondering the mystery. Sunlight was pouring through the blinds, which indicated to a great detective such as himself that it was daytime. He had the thick-headed, muzzy feeling that suggested prolonged slumber, his mouth was dry and his stomach empty. All the accumulated evidence pointed to the fact that he had slept through the entire day and night. Satisfied with his solution to the conundrum, he took stock of his surroundings.  
  
The rumpled sheets in the other bed indicated that his father had followed his own advice and slept, but was now up and about. Curiosity as to his whereabouts drove Steve to swing his legs around, the tight wrappings on his torso an unnecessary reminder to proceed judiciously.  
  
As he emerged into the living area, the clicking of keys directed Steve's attention to his father typing at the computer, one foot supported in front of him on a chair. Steve called out a drowsy greeting but changed his trajectory into the bathroom where a wash helped clear his head.  
  
Mark was still intent on the computer when he'd finished his ablutions, giving Steve the opportunity to study his father, unobserved. A good night's sleep had done wonders, and he marveled at Mark's recuperative powers. The frail look that had worried him the night before had gone, replaced by a characteristic determination as he sat absorbed by the screen in front of him.  
  
Deciding not to interrupt him, Steve went foraging for food, an additional 24 hours without eating fueling a tremendous appetite. He was pleasantly surprised to find a well-stocked refrigerator and he guessed, from the nature of the contents, that he had Jesse to thank for his foresight. Twenty minutes later, he regarded two plates of cholesterol-laden offerings with satisfaction. It might not be the healthiest breakfast he could imagine, but after several days of near starvation, he felt entitled.  
  
He carried Mark's plate over to his still-preoccupied father and allowed the delicious aroma of fried food to waft more densely in his direction. He could see Mark's nose twitching in response, but it took a few minutes before the olfactory message could struggle through overcrowded synapses to arrive at his brain. Suddenly, Mark's head started to turn, seeming to almost involuntarily follow his nose till his eyes fastened eagerly on the plate, then traveled up to his son's smiling face.  
  
"You slept well," he commented approvingly.   
  
"Rip Van Winkle's got nothing on me. You hungry or do you want to keep working?" Steve meant the remark humourously, but he caught the slight waver as Mark flicked a longing glance at the computer screen. "You've found something useful." It was more a statement than a question, and he got his confirmation in the familiar twinkle in his father's eyes that dragged an answering grin to his lips. He knew that unique blend of glee in matching wits with a criminal mind, satisfaction in a puzzle deciphered, and mischief in a plan in formation, so he wasn't surprised at his father's next words.  
  
"I know who's behind it!"


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14  
  
As curious as he was to discover what information his father had unearthed, Steve still decided to postpone his explanations until after they'd eaten. Not only was he ravenous, but, from the underlying gravity in his Mark's expression, he guessed that his father's revelations would be easier to tolerate on a full stomach.  
  
They ate with only the occasional inconsequential comment breaking the silence, savouring the cuisine and the tranquility, both of them understanding it was likely to be the calm before a new storm. Mark used the time to surreptitiously assess his son's condition, happy to see a hint of natural colour in his cheeks instead of the hectic flush of fever or the pallor of shock and stress which had alternated there during the past few days.  
  
At last, Steve leaned back, wiping a smudge of grease from beneath his chin with a paper towel. Fortified by good food, a long rest and, most importantly, respite from the constant tension, he felt ready to tackle the case head on.  
  
"OK, Dad, what have you found?" Knowing his father's love of the dramatic, he wasn't surprised when Mark countered with his own question.  
  
"What do you know about shipping?"  
  
Steve paused, the query more out of left field than he had anticipated. "It's done on ships," he answered with deliberate obtuseness, meeting his father's eyes gravely.  
  
Mark's mouth twitched, acknowledging both the seeming irrelevance of the question and the obviousness of the answer. "Is that your final answer?" he asked in his best Regis Philbin style.  
  
"Unless you have a million dollars to award me for a more complete response, then yes, I'd have to say that that's my final answer."  
  
Mark's eyes gleamed with the enthusiasm of a man eager to share newly acquired knowledge. "Let me enlighten you with more than you ever wanted to know about the import business. A ship owner has to register his ship on a national registry, but for an ocean-going ship, tends to have a fairly free choice about which country to choose. It is normally known as 'flagging'. These days, most owners don't register under US or European flags, even if that is their own nationality, because these countries have very strict safety and inspection regimes. They also insist that the officers and most of the crew must be of the home nationality. This all makes it too expensive to be economic for a normal merchant ship."  
  
Steve cleared his throat in the hopes of spurring his father to reach his point, but Mark merely waved an unrepentant and quelling hand in response and continued without missing a beat.  
  
"Instead, most ship owners register with 'flags of convenience'. The main ones are Panama and Liberia, since these have lax laws, and favourable tax treatment. Most of the world's merchant fleets are registered with these two, but there are also others. There has been some talk post 9/11 that flags of convenience should be clamped down on, but nothing has happened yet. The convention is that ships are recorded by their name, their flag and their port of origin. You just say, 'the tramp ship Sarah Jane out of Antwerp, under the Panamanian flag'. However, each ship has a reference number for paperwork, but these are not normally referred to."  
  
Mark pulled out Latiere's notebook, pointing at the entries that had initially intrigued him. "These are ship registration numbers," he finished triumphantly.  
  
"So, what that lengthy, and totally fascinating, exposition boils down to is that it confirms what you originally thought, that these are definitely entries of things smuggled into this country -- guns, drugs etc. The Ganza family is still alive and kicking, which isn't really surprising. How does that help us?"  
  
Mark was not disheartened by his son's lack of enthusiasm. "Look at the last completed entry. It's dated several weeks ago, yet, when you went with the Task Force, you were told that a shipment had just arrived. According to this, that was a lie."  
  
Steve didn't like the implications of that revelation. "So, it was definitely a set up. That means you suspect who....the Chief?"  
  
"Not necessarily," Mark demurred. "I'm still reserving judgment on that one. When he came to my house and told me that... you know." He was surprised by the intensity of remembered grief that washed over him, forcing him to stop and clear his throat of the sudden obstruction. "Well, to be honest, at the time, I was too... upset for anything he said to really register. But now, I think he was trying to tell me something important. He said that he'd been given the information by 'an impeccable source'. Who could that be?"  
  
Steve shook his head patiently, accustomed to feeling slow on the uptake while his father's mind leapfrogged over hunches and sprinted to deductions. "I don't know; the only person who...oh. You think it's Ross Canin. But he's a cop!" Even as he said it, he recognised the naivete of his reaction and flung up a hand to forestall Mark's response. "And we know just how many of them are on the take."  
  
Mark nodded in ardent confirmation. "Actually, that was one of the things that made me suspect him. Who better than a cop to know which of his fellow officers could be safely approached -- who needed money and whose standards could be compromised."  
  
Steve knew that Mark weighed many subtle factors before reaching a conclusion, but he felt obliged to protest. "Come on, Dad. It could be anybody. Any cop would fit that criteria. Don't forget, if it wasn't for Canin, you could still be on Death Row...or worse. He helped us."  
  
"If I'm right," Mark rebutted, "helping me was incidental to his main objective. He got the Ganza money back. Helping to take down the Trainers not only ensured the family fortune was intact, but also substantiated his position on top of the family hierarchy. Absolute power corrupts absolutely."  
  
"I want some coffee." Steve did indeed feel the need for caffeine to jumpstart his brain, but he also desired time to wrap his mind round this new and disturbing concept, to weigh its probabilities for himself.  
  
Mark allowed him his breathing space uninterrupted, but when Steve returned to the table, handing his father his own cup, Mark leaned forward, the light of conviction in his face. "You know the thing that bothered me from the beginning was who stands to gain from all this."  
  
"Revenge?" Steve posited halfheartedly, playing the role of devil's advocate to let his father work through his theory verbally.  
  
"No, too simple," Mark rejected the possibility. "There's a lot more involved here. Let me ask you another question. Who knows that Canin's a cop?"  
  
Steve shrugged. "I'm not sure. You, me, the Chief, Tanis, maybe some members of the Task For.....Oh." Again, his father's question opened the floodgates of insight, and he fought to stay afloat in the torrent of ramifications that cascaded through his mind. He stood up abruptly, nerves demanding action. He did his best thinking on the move. "So, if his plan had worked, the Task Force would be gone, you'd be dead or in prison and there'd be no one to connect him to his former life."  
  
Mark smiled ruefully. "I think it was even cleverer than that. You told me yourself, he used the Task Force to consolidate his power, weaken the other crime families. Then he turned round and killed everyone who offered a potential threat to his position in the police force. It was brilliant. He had the best of both worlds and he controlled it all, pulling the strings on both sides like a puppet master."  
  
Mark enjoying bouncing his ideas off Steve, trusting him to offer an objective perspective. Although the two of them tended to present a unified front to the world, privately Steve never hesitated to question his father's assumptions, poke at weak spots he found, enabling Mark to fully explore his hunches, formulating the reasons for his theories in a coherent and persuasive manner. It was teamwork, and Mark wouldn't have it any other way. He watched affectionately as his son paced, almost able to see ideas tumbling inside his mind. It was comforting to recall all the other times they had run through a similar routine, although normally the stakes weren't as high. He was also relieved by the normality of Steve's incessant motion. He had checked on his sleeping son several times and, although happy Steve was catching up on much-needed sleep, had been rather unnerved by his prolonged stillness.  
  
Steve correlated his father's theory with his own interactions with Canin, testing it for flaws. "You know, I once interrupted a confrontation between Canin and Ian Trainer that I could have sworn would have ended in murder if I hadn't shown up. But, where does Masters fit into all this? According to your theory, he should be the next target and Tanis is in terrible danger too."  
  
"Tanis is safe for now, with comprehensive security around her, and I asked Jesse to keep a close eye on her. As for Masters, we have to consider two choices. Either he's the next target as you say, and they just haven't got to him yet -- I don't imagine it's easy to predict his movements. Or, he's actually the man behind Canin. After all, he set him up in this position and he sent the Task Force out."  
  
Steve stopped pacing at the French doors, tilting his head consideringly, gazing down the hill at the ocean just visible in the distance. "I can't see him deliberately sending us all out to die." The truth was, he didn't want to contemplate a betrayal of that magnitude.  
  
He resumed his restless movements, reflecting on how easy it was to fall into old patterns. Here they were, hashing out a problem as they had so many times before, but this time he didn't have the authority of a police officer to enforce any decision they reached. Canin's guilt was something of an academic issue for now.  
  
"I presume this is all supposition at the moment, we don't have any proof?" he asked wistfully. He wouldn't have put it past his father to have sorted out the whole sorry mess while he slept, but somehow he doubted it.  
  
Mark shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid not. Is there anyone on the force you can talk to -- without being arrested on the spot, that is?"  
  
"Cheryl, but Dad, I can't go to her and ask her to risk her career. She probably would if I asked, which is why I can't." He looked apologetically at his father and saw only understanding there.  
  
"Well, the only other thing that occurred to me is to go to the media. If the whole story was splashed across the headlines, someone would have to investigate it."  
  
Steve's pacing increased in speed, betraying his inner agitation at the thought. "If you do that and Canin is innocent, we're signing his death warrant. And even if it's all true, the reputation of the LAPD would be blackened irreparably." If it were the only way to guarantee his father's safety, Steve would do it and live with the consequences, but he'd hate it. "I'll tell you what, Dad, let's keep that plan in reserve; see if we can't come up with something better in the meantime."  
  
Mark accepted his son's reasoning, not enthusiastic about the option himself. "We've got one more small thing in our favour. See this last entry in the book. The date shows a ship is due to dock in three days. We could arrange through an anonymous tip for it to be seized and maybe catch a significant portion of Canin's organisation."  
  
"I'd certainly like to keep the shipment off the streets and prevent Canin from profiting anymore from his illegal activities, but it's doubtful that Canin himself will be there." Steve tried not to sound too negative, but the extent of the task ahead, with the two of them alone facing the combined resources of Canin's organisation and the police department, suddenly seemed overwhelming.  
  
"Well, let me keep digging. We'll get to Canin somehow," Mark asserted confidently, sensing his son's pessimism.  
  
Steve flung himself on the sofa, his injuries protesting the abrupt movement. "The key question here is whether Masters is involved," he reflected.  
  
Mark eyed him warily. "Yes. Do you have an idea?"  
  
Steve nodded thoughtfully, meeting his father's eyes with a slight, rueful smile. "Yep, I'm going to ask him."  
  
Mark stared at his son, words momentarily failing him. While his mind was weaving elaborate schemes, Steve tackled the issue in his typical straightforward manner: assess the problem, form a plan of attack, resolve the situation, and move on. What it lacked in subtlety, it tended to make up for with the element of surprise. "Do you think that's wise?" he said at last.  
  
Steve shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, if he's guilty, I've got nothing to lose. If he's not, then, according to you, he's in terrible danger and deserves to be warned. He would make a very useful ally."  
  
Mark sensed it would be impossible to talk Steve out of his proposed course of action, but he wanted more time, both to enjoy the luxury of knowing his son was safe and to work on a solution that wouldn't further endanger him. Ruthlessly playing on his son's good nature, he pleaded, "Hold off for at least one day. Neither of us is in any condition to go anywhere at the moment. Give us 24 hours to recuperate and work this thing from all angles."  
  
At Steve's reluctant acquiescence, Mark attempted to find a diversion for them both. He pushed himself to his good foot and hobbled over to the sofa. "We need a break from this, and then we'll come back to it fresh. How about a game of chess?"  
  
Steve looked at him quizzically. "Being routed at chess is supposed to make me feel relaxed?" he asked in amusement.  
  
"I'll spot you a knight and a pawn," Mark challenged.  
  
Steve's competitive instincts were aroused. "You're on."  
  
During the close game, Mark watched the tension ease out of his son. It was so normal, a friendly, father/son game in quiet surroundings. Yet Mark couldn't help but notice that his earlier observations on their problem-solving strategies held true in their styles of playing chess. Steve tended to bludgeon forward, sacrificing pieces in a swift attack in the hopes of overwhelming his opponent by sheer force, while Mark's play was subtle and complex. A frisson of anxiety trickled coldly down his spine as Steve eventually tipped over his king in acknowledgement of defeat, and he hoped it wasn't a foreshadowing of the impending devastation of Steve's plan.  
  
Mark found he wanted to maintain the relaxed atmosphere. They both needed to escape from the constant pressure that had been squeezing the humanity steadily out of them leaving only the animal instinct of survival.  
  
"Let's play something else," he suggested hopefully.  
  
Steve walked over to the cupboard, tilting his head slightly to one side as he read the titles. "I need something with less strategy and more luck involved," he mused. "Monopoly?"  
  
"We'd be here for the next three days. How about something a little shorter."  
  
Steve spotted a wooden board shaped ornately like a whale. "Cribbage," he proposed.  
  
Mark allowed his mind to relax, not attempting to think about the case. He knew from experience that his best insights popped up when he wasn't focusing, like glimpsing phosphorescence in the ocean in your peripheral vision that was invisible directly ahead.  
  
His earlier work had found the straight-edge pieces of the puzzle, establishing the framework of understanding. Now, his subconscious would keep working on filling out the middle, fleshing out the details, sorting through minute details by discarding some and turning others around until they slotted into place with an almost audible click.  
  
The cards favoured Steve and, with great satisfaction, he placed his peg in the last hole while Mark was stranded half-way down the board. "Hmm," he said, stretching smugly. "A game of great skill."  
  
Mark snorted. "A game of pure luck! I'll take you in the rematch."  
  
Steve felt inexpressibly lighter after an afternoon of thinking of nothing weightier than the turn of the next card. He admitted to himself what a good suggestion it had been. His mind felt sharper, cleared of the numbing adrenaline fatigue that had clouded it for the past few days and, with that clarity, he became aware of the familiar sensation of hunger.  
  
He eyed his father's elevated foot ruefully, realising that he was the appointed cook for the interim.  
  
"Are you hungry, Dad?"  
  
Mark smiled in appreciation. "I should sprain my ankle more often."  
  
"I don't think there's any danger of that. You know my cooking too well."  
  
His father chuckled. "Hey, I'm not about to insult the hand that feeds me. While you do that, I'm going to check in with Jesse on the messaging system."  
  
Steve suppressed a grin. His father was like a child with a new toy; he couldn't resist trying it out. "Are you sure it can't be traced in any way?" he cautioned.  
  
"Not as far as I can tell, and it's set on both ends to vibrate, not ring, so no one except Jesse will know we're calling."  
  
"Tell him thanks and also check on Tanis for me."  
  
Steve left his father tapping intently on the new device and moved into the kitchen where he eyed the ingredients in the refrigerator thoughtfully. His repertoire of recipes had expanded considerably since taking over BBQ Bobs -- a natural outgrowth of pinch-hitting for the chefs in emergencies -- however, he'd never regard cooking as his forte.  
  
He was stirring a concoction of potatoes and onions on the stove when he became aware that something was wrong. Whether it was an odd stillness and silence from the other room that alerted him or an awareness of his father's moods that bordered on telepathy, a feeling of unease thrummed deep inside, like a string plucked on a harp.  
  
From the kitchen, he could see that Mark sat motionless on the couch, but his face was turned slightly away, concealing his expression. As Steve neared, he could see the phone, now inactive, held loosely in his father's hands with his gaze fixed blankly on it. Steve sat beside him, gently touching his arm to attract his attention.  
  
"What's wrong, Dad? Is it Tanis?"  
  
Mark's head swung round, at first blindly then, with an effort, he focused on his son. "No, she's..." he had to clear his throat, "...she's...her condition's unchanged -- still in a coma. No, it's Elise. She's missing. She never returned home that night."  
  
Mark's distress was obvious, and Steve wondered once again about the relationship between his father and the married woman whom he could not remember his father mentioning before this crisis. Without this knowledge, it was hard to respond appropriately, so he took the safest path and patted his father's knee awkwardly. "Sorry, Dad."  
  
"It's my fault." Mark's voice was tight with self-condemnation. "I should have realised they'd go after her thinking she'd know the contents of the notebook."  
  
"We didn't even know what we were getting into. There was nothing you could do."  
  
"I didn't really even think about her," Mark admitted painfully.  
  
"Dad, you're not responsible," Steve insisted. "You've had a busy time lately."  
  
Mark shook his head but didn't pursue the topic, funneling his guilt into a more productive determination to bring her murderers to justice if she were indeed dead. "Oh," he added as an afterthought. "Since I was the last one to see her, there's a warrant out for my arrest."  
  
Steve froze in place as if struck by a sudden paralysis, adrenaline washing through his body in a dizzying surge, erasing former reservations at the painful image of his father in a cell, vulnerable to the abuse and violence of the prison system. He'd lived with that nightmare once before, confined at first to a hospital bed and imagining the worst. Ironically, the largely solitary nature of Death Row had protected his father then. But if Mark were placed with the prison population at large, probably with men who could hold them both responsible for their incarceration, his father wouldn't stand a chance, and Steve wasn't about to let that happen. He slammed both hands on the coffee table in front of him as he bolted to his feet.  
  
"That's it. We'll go to the press."  
  
Mark started as the noise broke through his contemplation, and he eyed his fuming son with concern, understanding what had precipitated the burst of agitation. "We can't do that," he contradicted with sympathy. "Elise might have gone to ground or be dead already, but there's a strong chance they could be holding her as leverage for the notebook. If we go to the press, they'll kill her. I owe her more than that, Steve."  
  
"Then what?" Steve's voice was loud with frustration.  
  
"We follow your plan and talk with Masters."  
  
"WE?" Steve's eyes glinted hard and resolved as they met his father's.  
  
For a moment, Mark glared back with equal determination but, remembering the consequences of his stubbornness the night before, his scowl tapered off and he dropped his gaze contritely. Although his ankle was considerably improved, and with sturdy support he could walk normally, it wouldn't stand up to vigorous exertion.  
  
"I could slow you down," he admitted quietly and with palpable reluctance. "It's your choice."  
  
Steve had entertained no thoughts of allowing his father to accompany him, but suddenly doubts as to the wisdom of his intentions crept in. Left to his own devices, Mark was unequaled at finding trouble. This house seemed to be a safe refuge, but, as a police officer, Steve knew that minor circumstances beyond their control could easily lead to discovery. Furthermore, with the mysterious Elise missing, Steve wasn't sure that his father would wait for his return if more news came through in his absence.  
  
"Damn it! I'm sick of this!" Mark heard the capitulation behind the frustration in his son's voice and waited for the storm to pass, listening with interest to Steve's colourful and descriptive language articulating exactly how tired he was of making such impossible choices. Eventually, he ran out of steam and plonked himself down again next to his father.  
  
"Feeling better?" Mark asked brightly, coaxing a grin from his reluctant offspring.  
  
"Not really. Okay, let's find the Chief."  
  
This proved easier in theory than in action and, after a frustrating 24 hours of wielding internet and telephone directory with all their accumulated detective skills, they were still no closer to finding him.  
  
"The man's a ghost!" Steve exclaimed in disgust, throwing down the phone book. "He doesn't eat, he has no house. I'm beginning to think he's just a figment of our collective imaginations."  
  
"That could explain why Canin hasn't got to him yet," Mark remarked thoughtfully. "He doesn't want to take him out at a station full of cops and hasn't located him elsewhere either."  
  
In the end, it was Jesse who tipped them off to the lead they needed, culled from an article buried in an obscure section of the Los Angeles Times. "Police chief attends conference on Safer Cities: Responding to Urban Insecurity, Crime and Violence." All attendees would be staying for the three days of the meeting in the mildly luxurious surroundings of the Omni Hotel, a venerable, old ten-story edifice in downtown LA, its business boosted by the latest round of urban renewal efforts.  
  
Steve read the message over his father's shoulder with satisfaction. The delay had chafed his patience, although the respite from physical exertion had done them both good. Mark's ankle had strengthened considerably, and Steve's own injuries were healing nicely with only the occasional twinge from an injudiciously sharp move to remind him of the continued need for caution.  
  
As a bonus, Mark was familiar with the layout of the Omni Hotel, having attended more than one medical conference there. He'd taken scant notice of security at the time, but had observed enough that the two of them could make educated guesses about precautions in place and make contingency arrangements to circumvent cameras and personnel.  
  
With a few discrete purchases, they were prepared to implement their plan and, once night fell, they drove out under cover of darkness. Leaving their sanctuary and reentering the fray had a dampening effect on both their spirits, and the ride was mostly silent, each man immersed in his own thoughts.  
  
It was past 11:00 pm when an elderly man entered the lobby of the Omni and approached the lone clerk working at the front desk. Mark had decided that no elaborate disguise was necessary; he should meld right in with their normal clientele. He played up his age, but not to the exaggerated lengths he had resorted to before. Engaging the clerk in friendly conversation while arranging for a room, he pushed a button on the phone in his pocket, sending Steve a prearranged signal. Moments later, the desk phone rang, the caller asking to be connected to Chief Masters. Mark knew from previous experience that the extension numbers matched room numbers, and he made sure he was situated in an excellent position to see the digits the clerk pressed to transfer the call.  
  
Completing his transaction, Mark smiled his thanks and made his way at a dignified pace to the elevator, where he was joined by his son, who strolled confidently across the lobby, keeping his face turned away from the security camera near the doors.  
  
Masters' room was on the sixth floor. With the advent of electronic key cards, gaining access to a room illegally was getting trickier and extended beyond Steve's burgeoning criminal prowess. They had debated the relative merits of a variety of methods of gaining entry. The balcony was one possibility, but Mark was beyond such feats of athletic agility, and they agreed that Masters was too shrewd to fall for such obvious subterfuge as phony room service.  
  
To their relief, their first attempt at purloining a master key card was successful as Mark, in his guise as a new guest, employed dexterous sleight of hand to neatly exchange it for a hefty tip as the maid giggled at his gallantry. They didn't expect the theft to stay unnoticed for long, but they only needed enough time to break into Masters' suite.  
  
Despite that concern, Steve's first inclination was to leave Mark in his recently acquired room until he had verified the Chief's position and involvement. "You stay here and guard my back. I'll buzz you when I've got things sorted out."  
  
Mark was adamantly opposed to that plan, suspecting that he would be needed as a buffer between the two proud, stubborn officers. "It's really hard watching your back with walls between us," he pointed out dryly. "It would be easier if I was actually behind you and could _see_ your back. In fact, I believe it's a prerequisite."  
  
"Dad, this is between me and Masters," Steve objected. "I want to talk to him alone."  
  
"I think that's a mistake. It would work smoother between you, _me_ and Masters. He might be more willing to listen to a civilian who is not technically under his command," Mark stated diplomatically. "Besides, you never know what would happen if you left me here, what trouble I could get into."  
  
Steve regarded his father with a jaundiced eye at this flagrant blackmail. "Okay, but you stay behind me at all times. You do not come into the room until I tell you it's safe. Agreed?"  
  
Mark nodded virtuously, willing to consent to reasonable restrictions as long as he was included.  
  
It was very late or early depending on your perspective, and most of the guests were in bed. Steve hoped fervently that Masters was among them, although he thought morosely that sleep was too human a frailty for the Chief to indulge in. The hallways were fortunately deserted. Steve slipped the card in the lock gently, then withdrew it carefully, wincing at the subdued beep and subsequent click that announced the door was now unlocked.  
  
Turning the handle as quietly as possible, he eased the door open and slipped inside. He sensed the nearby presence almost immediately and swung his gun round, but froze at the unmistakable sensation of a gun barrel ground viciously into the side of his neck.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15  
  
"Don't move!"  
  
The command was delivered in chillingly forbidding tones, but Steve straightened slowly and defiantly. His own gun was already aligned with his captor's stomach and he jammed it forwards, emphasising the reciprocal threat.  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
In shifting position, the light from the corridor had illuminated Steve's features, and he heard the intake of breath from Masters as recognition registered.  
  
"Sloan. I never thought it would be you." An edge of bitterness coloured the gravelly voice.  
  
Steve realised that he had underestimated the chief of police, that he'd been expecting a nocturnal and unwelcome visitor. In the dim light, the two men glared at each other, neither giving way. Masters was one of the few people that Steve looked up to, both physically and psychologically, but he didn't let either the man's stature or position intimate him now. Intentionally or not, Masters was responsible for their fugitive status and his father's traumatic ordeal.  
  
Neither man was prepared to yield an inch, and the deadlock might have continued indefinitely without Mark's intervention. He could see little through the crack in the door, but the few words spoken were sufficient for him to envision the whole picture so, exhibiting his usual finely-honed sense of self-preservation, Mark entered the room, switching the lights on as he did so.  
  
If his reasoning was wrong, his son could be in terrible danger, but he swallowed back his instinctive panic at the sight of the gun pushed menacingly against Steve's carotid artery. "Are you two going to stand there all night?" he asked with just the right touch of impatience in his voice.  
  
Steve tensed, ready to throw himself bodily at Masters if the gun ventured as much as an inch in his father's direction but, to his surprise, the Chief broke the deadlock, slowly lowering his gun and then reholstering it.  
  
"Maybe I was wrong. Somehow, I don't see you bringing your father along for the ride if you were here to kill me."  
  
With characteristic coolness, he turned his back on the gun Steve was still holding on him and walked to the bar. "Drink anyone?" he asked casually.  
  
Mark shook his head. "You were expecting an assassin," he stated confidently. "You know Canin's behind this."  
  
For a moment, a touch of uncertainty showed behind the Chief's impassive expression. "It seemed the most likely explanation, yes."  
  
"Then why the hell haven't you done anything about it?" Steve burst out angrily, but he finally tucked his own gun into the back of his pants.  
  
"What exactly would you suggest I do, Sloan?" Masters asked acidly, a cold stare fixed on Steve. "I have no proof that he's switched sides, and I can't exactly call him and invite him over for a chat. With the Task Force...gone, I didn't know who I could trust on this issue."  
  
"You're just worried about your political career," Steve accused bitingly. "It wouldn't look good for the Chief of Police, and possible future Mayor, to have set up a former policeman as the next Boss of organised crime in the whole of Los Angeles. Not good at all."  
  
Masters turned to face his insubordinate officer with matching fire in his eyes. For a moment they stood, a battle of wills apparent in their combative scowls.  
  
Mark suppressed a sigh at the deliberate antagonisation of this potential ally, although he understood that it was the expression of his son's pent-up frustrations. He also realised that, intentionally or not, he and his son were tag-teaming the interrogation of the chief with a good cop/bad cop routine which had a good chance of prising loose information from the closed-mouthed Masters. Once again he jumped into the conversational breach. "So you set yourself up here. You knew that if it was Canin, he'd have to get you out of the way."  
  
Masters gave a curt nod, turning to look at the elder Sloan. "I didn't expect the two of you to turn up."  
  
"I'm sure you didn't," Steve interjected caustically. "Between Canin's goons and your men, you must have been sure we'd be out of the way -- probably in a body bag somewhere."  
  
Masters' matching anger was ice to Steve's seething heat. "I didn't know what the hell was going on with you. You left the scene of a crime not once but twice, and killed another cop."  
  
Steve wasn't impressed by the counter-attack. "You've got no credibility here. You sent us to die in an ambush and, when you thought I was dead, you hung my father out to dry. You handed him over to IA to browbeat and abuse and then left him defenseless against a murderous attack by your officers. If I truly had been killed in the blast, Dad would be dead too, a very convenient scapegoat for all concerned."  
  
Steve hammered out the accusation in a fury as he advanced on the Chief, his fists clenched tightly by his side. The brutality of the attack on Mark and the narrowness of his escape still had the power to impale him with a sharp jab of panic, and he felt a very personal sense of betrayal by the Chief. As a police officer, he faced the real possibility of death every day, and it was an important consolation that the department took care of their own and he could expect his colleagues and superiors to watch out for his father. That fond belief had been rudely shattered, and the Chief was a convenient target for his resulting anger.  
  
Before his son could lose control and belt the Chief, Mark hurried across the room to avert disaster, in the belief that Steve would like a job to return to after clearing his name. He laid a hand on his son's broad shoulder and squeezed gently, not as a form of restraint but as an affirmation of his presence, physical proof that he'd survived the nightmare Steve was reliving. He felt the tension in the muscles under his fingers start to relax but, surprisingly, it was Masters who completed the process.  
  
"I'm sorry." The simple apology from a proud man defused the brunt of Steve's anger. His threatening posture relaxed, fingers uncurling gradually, and he turned abruptly away from the Chief, holding his father's worried gaze for a minute before, with a nod that acknowledged that concern and yielded control of the situation to Mark, he walked across to the couch and sat down.   
  
Mark resumed his polite interrogation. "You had no suspicions about Canin before the ambush at the warehouse?"  
  
"None at all. He seemed to be performing a difficult job in an exemplary manner."  
  
"I told you that the line was too blurry," Steve growled, not yet entirely ready to relinquish his animosity. "If he could even see it, you pushed him over it. To maintain his position, he was forced to break the law."  
  
Only a tightening of the jaw acknowledged Steve's accusation. "It was a mistake, but at the time it wasn't clear. Originally, Canin was only supposed to be a small cog in the Ganza crime machine, supplying us with information, but, when he found himself in charge, more or less by default, it seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. It worked too. We've had excellent information on all the organised crime groups, brought down a large number of top figures and confiscated an unprecedented amount of weapons and drugs."  
  
"All of which consolidated Canin's position," Mark pointed out mildly. "But he only fed you enough to keep you happy and rid himself of opposition. You weren't getting the full information." Mark pulled out the notebook and, gesturing to the Chief to join them on the sofa, he showed it to Masters, explaining the numbers as they had deciphered them so far.  
  
The Chief perused the pages in silence for a few minutes before adding the nature of the cargo to their pool of knowledge. Mark then turned to the back page and explained Steve's deductions on the digits there. With a stone face, his mouth a thin gash, Masters read it. His eyes showed his chagrin and mounting fury, but his voice remained uninflected as he commented occasionally on the long list. "This group is in IA, these Vice." A finger stabbed another number further down. "He's a Captain."  
  
Steve was grudgingly impressed by the Chief's thorough knowledge of his department and personnel, but worry for Mark outweighed all other considerations. "Now that you know who you can trust, what are you going to do to ensure my father's safety and bring Canin in?"  
  
"It's not that easy, Lieutenant." Masters accorded Steve his rank for the first time. He tapped the notebook. "As I told you once before, knowing something and proving it are two different things. This won't stand up in court, especially since Latiere isn't around to verify its contents. _I_ may believe you, but my opinion doesn't count for much. The facts are that you shot another cop in the performance of his duty, or so his friends claim, and left the scene. It's your word against theirs as to what went down. All the evidence is weighted against you, and it'll take time to clear up."  
  
"I'll take my chances," Steve insisted. "But I need my father well guarded by people we trust in the meantime."  
  
"No!" Fear propelled the word out in a sharper tone than Mark had intended, and he tried to moderate his voice to a more reasonable level as he continued. "We need to drive Canin into the open first. If we don't, it would be tantamount to a death sentence for you. We need to force him to show his hand; get concrete proof."  
  
"Or lure him out," the Chief added pensively, dropping the notebook back on the coffee table and moving off the sofa, needing to face the Sloans to see their reaction.  
  
"How are you thinking of doing that?" Steve asked suspiciously.  
  
Masters arched an eyebrow. "Canin wants this book and the three of us dead. With that accomplished, his position is unassailable. If you are 'killed' resisting arrest and Mark is placed in custody..."  
  
Steve was on his feet instantly. "You are not using my father as bait! If you want to fish for a murderer, get someone else to play the worm on the end of the hook." His eyes blazed with the heat of blue fire, scorching and unquenchable. Every protective instinct within him was screaming out in protest. Mark was about to object, but Steve must have sensed his intent, since he turned his glare on him and Mark subsided, impervious to the fury in the gaze, but unable to ignore the fear he saw behind the anger.  
  
"And what do you suggest, Lieutenant?" The Atacama desert could not be drier than the Police Chief's tone.  
  
"Old fashioned police work," Steve stated immediately. "We know what we're looking for; let's find it. We have a whole list of suspects here to interrogate. We question them and probe for a weak spot, confirmation of our suspicions, then we move in."  
  
"May I propose a compromise?" Mark suggested diffidently. "We don't want to tip our hand too early, so a possible..." His voice trailed off as, unconsciously, he obeyed the muting signals broadcast by his son's body language.  
  
Steve's frame was rigid, his head tilted slightly and, although his eyes were on the door, their unfocused, frowning gaze reinforced the impression that he was listening intently, concentrating on something imperceptible to the others beyond the room.  
  
It was scant warning, but sufficient to save their lives. In front of their eyes, the lock dissolved into splinters with explosive force, although there was eerily little sound for the magnitude of destruction. Mark automatically grabbed the notebook from the table in front of him. Luckily, the two cops instinctively reacted to what they recognised as silenced weapon fire -- the Chief's long legs needing only a few strides to find shelter behind the bathroom wall perpendicular to the entrance. Mark and Steve were not in such a fortuitous position, exposed in the middle of the room with no time to find impregnable cover.  
  
Mark found himself abruptly disoriented, his feet flying above his head as his son tackled both him and the couch, knocking them both over and depositing him flat on the floor behind the flimsy protection of the furniture. Steve's weight held him down as the first gunman entered, spraying a wide arc of bullets in an enthusiastic and slightly panicked attempt to take down his quarry. One well-placed bullet from Masters left him sprawled lifelessly on the floor, a useful obstacle to deter his fellow assailants, who had apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valour and limited their assault to speculative shots from the doorway.  
  
Steve had yet to fire a shot and, suddenly afraid the body on top of him was literally dead weight, Mark started to struggle to rise, but an insistent hand in the middle of his shoulder blades, pushing him back down, reassured him, and he obeyed its unspoken command, realising that the couch was scarcely a defensible position and Steve was merely attempting to avoid calling attention to their location.  
  
Steve was also grimly aware that he possessed a limited number of bullets. He was still carrying the weapon purloined from the IA car at the Beach House, which had already been fired, and he had no spare ammunition. However, he knew he had to support the Chief in deterring an all-out attack so, to draw returning fire away from his father, he wormed his way to the opposite end of the couch -- a postion from which he could also communicate with Masters. With a combination of signals established for just such situations requiring silent communication, supplemented by a series of furious gestures, they formulated a plan, although Steve ascertained that the Chief was only slightly better supplied with ammunition than he was.  
  
Canin must be desperate to undertake such a large-scale assassination attempt in the middle of a public hotel, and the two policemen were concerned by the potential for innocent casualties in such a situation. Although they imagined that, by now, reinforcements were on the way, it was impossible to tell how many men Canin had sent and how long it would take for help to arrive. Meanwhile, Mark and Steve were too vulnerable behind the couch, which would do little to stop a well-placed bullet. While Masters provided covering fire, the Sloans were to retreat the few yards to the balcony, the glass of which had already been shattered, removing the need to waste time opening it. The balcony extended beyond the distance of the glass, so the wall would shelter them and they could work their way along the balconies of adjacent rooms to a safer location, and, after finding Mark a secure shelter, Steve could return to the corridor and hopefully catch the gunmen in enfilading fire.  
  
It was a good plan in theory, but it contained significant risks. The gunmen were pressing their attack more insistently as time for them ran out. Fear lodged like a hard cube in the pit of his stomach as Steve inched back to his father. In a few whispered words, he explained the plan to Mark and together they crawled to the extent of the cover provided by the couch.  
  
Mark was white-faced but steady, and Steve gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze as he watched Masters' fingers counting down - 3...2...1! With a shout of, "Go", Steve surged to his feet, covering Mark's escape with his own body as both he and Master beat out a formidable tattoo with their guns. A quick glimpse behind assured him that Mark had reached safety, and relief feathered down his spine as he ran to join him, a bullet slicing a shallow furrow in his side, speeding him on his way, a hot-poker sensation searing along his ribs.  
  
The balconies along the floor were a couple of feet apart, which could be covered by one good stride, an easy enough proposition at ground level, but six floors up it presented a very different challenge. But there was no time to pander to Steve's acrophobia. Masters had sacrificed a large measure of his own security in facilitating their escape, and Steve owed him for that. He negotiated the first gap with no difficulty but, seeing his father haul himself onto the railings, bracing himself against the wall as he wavered slightly preparatory to stepping out, brought a surge of dizzying nausea and clammy hands as he reached out to steady his arrival.  
  
The procedure had to be repeated twice more, but Steve stubbornly refused to look down, determined not to allow his eyes to sample the sight his imagination was force-feeding him. As he pulled his father down off the railings for the last time, his mouth was dry and his knees weak with relief that this part of the ordeal was over. He made a mental note to never book a room above the ground floor again.  
  
Masters had indicated that the third room was empty and it had the added advantage that its entrance was opposite the doors to the stairs in the hall. The balcony door was locked, so Steve reversed his gun, shattering the glass and reaching gingerly through the resulting aperture to open it. He advanced cautiously into the dark room, gun extended, not taking its vacancy for granted. He could feel Mark at his back, and felt a brief flash of gratitude for his father's steadfast courage and unquestioning support.  
  
The sound of sporadic gunfire from the hall reached them clearly. Steve checked his gun, just four bullets left, not enough to go on the offensive very effectively, but he had no choice. He eased open the door soundlessly, risking a quick glance into the corridor. There were three men outside the door to the Chief's room, one kneeling on each side and one standing facing away from Steve. They had obviously not plucked up the courage to charge through -- Masters' reputation, as much as his gun, keeping them at bay.  
  
With such limited ammunition at his disposal, Steve wanted his father out of the way before he started firing, since if they chose to come after him, he wouldn't be able to hold them off for long. Taking up a firing stance, he nodded at Mark who darted across the gap to the stairs. The swift movement in the corner of his vision caught the eye of the man on the far side of Masters' door. As he swung his gun around, Steve took him down and the other two mobsters scattered, quickly appreciating the danger of their newly exposed position. Steve was preparing to follow up on his advantage when the sound of a shot from the stairs and a cry of pain from his father chilled him, sending fear ripping through his gut.  
  
He slammed through the door in a panic, almost straight into the path of a bullet, his own almost reflex shot tumbling the gunman down the stairs to lie at the feet of his accomplice who promptly reversed direction, taking cover behind the lower floor of the stone staircase while firing several rounds. Steve ignored him in favor of checking on his father, whose face was bleeding profusely although he was on his feet.  
  
"Dad?" Trying to check on the injury, Steve hustled Mark around the corner out of the immediate line of fire.  
  
"I'm alright. I think it was a chip of stone ricocheting from the wall. I'm not shot," Mark reassured him as he tried to stem the flow of blood.  
  
As a bullet impacted the wall behind them, dangerously close to their heads, Steve grabbed his father's arm, forcing him up the next flight of stairs, urgency clear in his voice. "We've got to keep moving. Come on!"  
  
They fled upwards, Steve's strong hand guiding Mark's stumbling steps as the flight and the fear drew the air from the older man's straining lungs, the sting of the sweat trickling into the cut on his face. He ducked involuntarily as a bullet twanged off the railing, the curve of the stairs the only thing protecting them, but their pursuer was steadily overhauling them despite their best efforts.  
  
_I'm too slow_, Mark thought desperately, knowing Steve would be the first target. He wanted to urge his son to go ahead but didn't waste what little breath he had on a hopeless appeal, grimly forcing the necessary acceleration from his aching, leaden legs.  
  
It was a terrifying race, with death snapping savagely at their heels, spurring them to greater exertion. Blood loss and insufficient oxygen added to a growing sense of disorientation, blinding him to everything except his burning lungs and muscles.  
  
The end came so abruptly that, for a precious second, they stumbled to a halt, staring, aware only of the fact that there were no more stairs. A door led out onto the top floor, but Steve realised that, even if they could get through in time, the hallway would offer no areas of concealment. They were essentially cornered. Grasping the implications of the situation almost immediately, Steve pushed his father towards the safest corner, out of the line of fire, and positioned himself against the railing at the top of the stairs, grimly preparing to use the last of his ammunition to the best effect.  
  
His best hope was that the gunman would, in his blind enthusiasm for the chase, make himself an easy target, but he couldn't rely on that so, in the split second available, he cataloged other possible methods of defense. Once emptied, the gun itself could be employed as a projectile and, as a last desperate resort, he fully intended to use the advantage of elevation to turn his own body into a missile. It would be a kamikaze move, and he would almost certainly stop a bullet on the way down, but the impact of his bulk from such a height could easily break a man's neck, buying his father time to escape.  
  
The metal railing was cool against his heated cheek, and the gun felt slippery in his sweaty hands as he struggled to keep it steady while his lungs tried to compensate for the deprivation of oxygen suffered in half-carrying his father up four flights of stairs at break-neck speed.  
  
Unfortunately, it seemed that their pursuer had clued in to the lack of pounding feet ahead and was exercising a caution that precluded him from blundering obligingly round the corner and presenting himself as easy prey. Maybe they could maintain a stand-off until reinforcements arrived.  
  
"Steve!" His father's sibilant whisper momentarily redirected his attention from the stairs to the ladder which led to the roof. He had dismissed it as impractical earlier in their need for haste, but, now that their assailant had apparently abandoned speed for caution, it offered some intriguing possibilities. The lower five-to-six feet had been enclosed in a smooth padlocked, metal panel to discourage curious guests from inappropriate exploration, but the upper few rungs were clear and offered access to the latch which opened the hatch to the roof.  
  
A bullet hummed unpleasantly past his ear, the explosion of the shot echoing eerily in the small space, causing Steve to focus back on the stairs just too late for a decent shot at his opponent.  
  
Making a quick decision, Steve moved back out of range, tucked his gun into the back of his pants and used his hands as a stirrup to boost his father to the top of the ladder. Quickly moving back into position, he surprised the gunman with his abrupt reappearance, but the would-be assassin dove back into shelter, and Steve's hastily taken shot impacted the wall behind him. Although he was now in the precarious position of having only one bullet left in his gun, Steve didn't count the shot as entirely wasted, hoping that the reminder that his quarry was armed would act as a deterrent.   
  
He leapt for the ladder and, although both his stitches and his recently acquired laceration complained at the strain, he pulled himself easily up and out onto the roof where Mark was hovering anxiously. He closed the hatch behind him, looking around hopefully for some way to fasten it down permanently, but the area was devoid of movable objects of any type. There were the usual types of hiding places for a lethal game of hide and seek -- heating units and a water tank, but, to Steve's jaundiced eye, it was bereft of seriously defensible positions. For now, he decided the safest way to deal with an attack was at the point of entry.  
  
"Dad, see if you can find a way off the roof -- other stairs or a fire escape."  
  
Mark nodded, but delayed his departure as he glimpsed the fresh blood on his son's shirt. "How bad?" he asked tersely.  
  
"Just grazed me." Steve took in his father's blood-streaked face, still oozing from the cut above his cheek. "You're in worst shape than me, but there's no time for first-aid. I've only got one bullet left, so we need to get off this roof."  
  
Mark surveyed the bleak prospects with a grimace and started to work his way around the edge, checking over the slight parapet.  
  
The hatch opened a fraction, but Steve had positioned himself behind it so he couldn't be seen, and Mark was temporarily concealed behind the water tank, so he waited until the hatch opened further, then with a bound, he leaped onto it with both feet, hearing the gratifying smack of wood on unprotected skull and subsequent muffled cries of pain and rage. He was delighted at the success of his maneuver, but his smug smile of satisfaction was quickly erased as bullets and splinters burst through the wood, causing him to quickly vacate the area.  
  
"Over here!" Mark called excitedly. Steve loped over the roof to his father, who gestured triumphantly over the side. "There's a fire escape ladder!"  
  
A quick glance confirmed this discovery, but also sent his stomach roiling at the ten-story height. Mark had one leg over the side gingerly testing the ladder's strength, and Steve hastily moved closer, ready to grab him if the structure gave way. But at that instant, some survival instinct, the residual of both jungle and street warfare, dragged his attention around, and he saw the gunman already half on the roof, gun extended in their direction.  
  
Steve brought his weapon around and fired in one smooth move. But as the bullet left his gun to strike its target with lethal accuracy, a stunning blow smashed into his thigh, toppling his balance and causing him to stumble hard against his father. Mark was knocked away from the ladder and, with a hoarse cry of alarm, disappeared over the edge.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16  
  
Mark heard the shot, but, even as it registered, the unexpected and violent impact of Steve's shoulder against his caused him to lose his hold on the ladder and irrevocably shifted his balance, pitching him out into space, his arms flailing in an instinctive but futile attempt to regain his equilibrium or find some purchase to prevent the fatal plunge.  
  
In that agonising, but seemingly infinite, instant between the possibility and inevitability of death, he lived a lifetime of terror and regret. He would never know if his son still lived and would suffer the agonies of remorse for his inadvertent part in his father's demise. He desperately wished he could have assured himself of Steve's survival and reassured Steve that it was not his fault, but he could do nothing except brace himself for the smashing shock of oblivion.  
  
Pain came sooner than anticipated; a savage jerk to his shoulder and a blow to his knee. For a moment he hung, disoriented, unable to comprehend the passage of events, expectations at odds with reality. The pain resolved itself primarily in his wrist, and he became aware that he was suspended from the roof, his body describing a gentle, pendulum swing.  
  
For a few seconds, he watched the bricks undulate before his eyes, paying undue attention to the minute pieces of crumbling mortar between them, the trivial detail confirming he was alive, then, involuntarily, his gaze was drawn down, and he could dimly see the alley below in the reflected street lights, looking like a giant maw gaping open to receive him.  
  
Unsure whether his reversal of fortune was temporary or not, he finally looked up. With a savage bound, his heart started to race, compensating for the beats it had skipped when facing his imminent demise. The cause of his salvation was clear, Steve's long, strong hand was wrapped tightly around his wrist. He could see his son's arm up to his shoulder, but the rest of his body was hidden as he lay flat on the roof. He was unmoving, but common sense informed the panicked father that with a grip that tight, his son couldn't be dead. Suddenly terrified that an inadvertent move on his part would drag his son with him into the void, Mark looked around frantically for some way to relieve Steve of his burden. The ladder was a tantalising few feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. Steve's arm was pulled tight against a strange, wooden decorative overhang and there was no opportunity to increase his swing to reach it even if he hadn't feared that any shift of weight might cause both their deaths.  
  
His right arm was free, but he could see nothing close enough to grasp to take his weight. Fear for himself took a back seat to fear for his son as Steve continued to lie inert, except for the crushing grasp he maintained.  
  
he queried urgently, but there was no response.  
  
Again, he tried louder. Steve, are you alright? It was an asinine question, but Mark had never been so frightened in his life as he dangled over oblivion, only five fingers between him and a horrifying death. He knew exactly the effect impact with the ground from that height had on the human body. To compound his misery, Steve was clearly injured, and he was merely a burden, unable to help him.  
  
With every second of silence, Mark's worry increased exponentially. A strange tickle on his arm distracted him, alerting him to a new factor in the situation. He craned his aching neck upwards to focus on a rivulet of blood, trickling slowly down his outstretched limb. It looked oddly crimson against the white of his arm, and for a few seconds he watched in fascination. It was joined by a tributary from above, and together they increased speed, disappearing beneath the sleeve of Mark's shirt. More drops spiraled downwards, staining gory streaks like war-paint on his arm. Morbidly, he imagined them falling through the air and landing on the ground far below, inscribing a bull's eye for Mark's own eventual plummet.  
  
Suddenly, he realised that the blood was not his but his son's, and his scalp crawled and his chest tightened, making breathing difficult. Steve, who quite literally held his life in his hands, in more ways than one, was losing blood rapidly.  
  
He sensed that an appeal for assistance was the best way to break through his son's inexplicable paralysis. He almost considered complaining that his wrist hurt, but the last thing he wanted was for Steve to reflexively loosen his grasp.  
  
Steve, please help me, he pleaded.  
  
With Steve unresponsive, and suspended on the cusp of death, he felt a strange feeling of isolation and, coupled with his increasing desperation for Steve, he nearly panicked.  
  
  
  
The profound relief that washed over Mark at the muffled sound of his son's voice was almost unbearable, yet the pained, confused tones caused Mark to exclaim almost involuntarily, Don't let go! Steve's fingers closed impossibly tighter, and Mark suppressed a groan as the small bones in his wrist were ground together.  
  
A slight shift in Steve's position brought Mark's earlier fears for his son's survival rushing back, and ignoring the inconsistency of his instructions he commanded, Steve, listen to me. If you're in any danger of going over, you must let me go. Do you understand? There's a good chance I can grab the ladder. The latter statement was an unblushing lie, but he would not save his own life at the expense of his son's.  
  
This time, he could sense a gathering strength coloured by dark amusement in his son's strained words. No way. Where you go, I go -- remember? You can't change the rules on me at this point. Now, be quiet for a moment and let me think.  
  
With Steve's return to full consciousness, Mark's fears for himself dissolved. His son's voice carried implacable conviction. He would never let his father fall, but would save him or die trying. It was the probability of the latter that terrified Mark.  
  
Steve lay spread eagled on the roof. As Mark had toppled off the edge, Steve's superb reflexes and coordination, coupled with a modicum of luck, had enabled him to seize his father's thrashing wrist, but his injured leg had been unable to maintain his balance, and Mark's plunging weight had brought him down to the tarmac with a considerable impact. Only the fortuitous presence of a pipe under his frantically groping hand and the slope of the parapet prevented him from being dragged off in his father's wake.  
  
The force with which the side of his face slammed into the roof had stunned him, and he fought the swirling mists of unconsciousness that threatened to engulf him. Some instinct greater than that of thought had screamed to him to hold on, and both hands had tensed obediently in response.  
  
The fear in his father's voice now dragged him back from the brink, and he took inventory of his physical limitations. His left leg ached unmercifully from the bullet wound, sending spirals of agony up and down the limb, and he could feel that the leg of his pants was soaked with blood. Muscles and tendons in his shoulders screamed at the unusual stress. He'd also landed with considerable force on his injury from the explosion and he suspected that not only had it reopened, but also that he'd broken at least one rib. The worst of his pain seemed to be centered on his forearm, a slashing nauseating agony that leached the strength from his fingers. His hand felt slick from blood or sweat where it grasped his father's wrist, and he tightened it convulsively, suddenly terrified that Mark would slip from his fingers.  
  
He muttered a few choice imprecations and swallowed back the acid in his throat as the terror of the situation suffused his being, crushing down on him with suffocating pressure. He held his father's life in one tired, cramping hand, and any weakening on his part would result in a hideous death for the person he loved and respected more than any other. Failure was unthinkable, yet even now, painful spasms shook his legs and shoulders, and his arms felt like dead weights, aching and numb, tendons and ligaments stretched and torn in this torture of body and spirit.  
  
He wondered if he could hold on until help arrived, but fatigue pervaded every muscle and he could feel his strength ebbing, spilling out like milk from a broken bottle, first trickling, then bubbling faster, and he knew he needed to take action before his reserves were completely depleted. The sound of shots growing nearer cemented the decision.  
  
His right arm was numb and he could no longer feel his father's wrist encircled by his inert fingers. For one truly hideous instant that seared him to the soul, he feared he'd lost his grip.  
  
he called, clutching desperately, welcoming the resulting agony that sliced into his arm as a sign he still held his precious cargo, and by sheer force of will he ordered deadened fingers to maintain their grasp.  
  
Not going anywhere, came the reassuring, but terse, answer.  
  
Steve gingerly shifted his right leg to brace it more firmly against the small parapet, but even that change in position produced an inchoative cramp in his shoulder, and he hastily adjusted his weight, hoping to divert a full-blown spasm.  
  
Steve, you still there? The tentatively humourous query from below was a valiant attempt to conceal the strain Mark was experiencing.  
  
Steve could taste the metallic tang of blood as he struggled for an equally nonchalant tone. I just went for a nice cold beer... The downward force exerted on his outstretched position was preventing his diaphragm from properly expanding, and he had to break off, gasping for more breath. ...and some chips, but I'm back now.  
  
It's a nice view, Mark continued lightly to conceal his growing concern for his son, but slightly monotonous. Any ideas?  
  
Steve gave an experimental tug on the pipe and the resulting creak flattened him into the roof, trying to bury himself in the unyielding, bruising surface. If you've finished sight-seeing...I think it's time you came back up. Despite the jaunty words, a trace of the desperation he was feeling leaked through. We're only going to get one chance at this, Dad. We've got to get it right.  
  
He banished the possibility and consequences of failure from his mind, drowning out the niggling terror that clamoured for recognition, summoning up every iota of his waning resources and visualising the process to success.  
  
I'm going to count to three, he shouted down. A gunshot sounded nearby, but he dismissed it as a distraction. The only thing that mattered now was lifting his father to safety.  
  
Mark swallowed hard to moisten his dry throat, knowing that the next minute would see them safe or broken on the ground. For now, he was along for the ride; until they neared the top there was nothing he could do to help. He took heart from the steadiness and determination in his son's voice.  
  
Counting down steadily, Steve tensed every muscle and sinew in preparation, flooding his mind with anger and fear, needing the desperate strength they offered. On the count of three, he heaved, left arm pulling on the pipe and praying it would hold, right foot pushing, but most of the effort concentrated in his right shoulder. The powerful deltoids bunched and writhed as, at first in tiny increments, Mark was drawn upwards.  
  
The initial inertia was the hardest to overcome, not only was he lifting Mark's entire, not inconsiderable, weight, but his arm also met resistance in its slide back up. The slashing agony as he forced the movement caused a vertiginous roil in his stomach, but the adrenaline coursing through his system refused to allow the full sensation to register. He stubbornly continued hoisting, pain a negligible price for his father's survival.  
  
The muscles and ligaments in Mark's arm were shrieking in protest at the rough treatment, and he entertained a mental picture of the limb tearing out of its socket, but he was awed by his son's feat of formidable strength. Mark felt like a sack of potatoes, hanging inert and useless, only able at first to mentally will his son on as he edged minutely up the building. As he neared the wooded decorative overhang, he tried to fend himself off as best he could to prevent undue friction. He winced as a piece of the cracked wood jabbed into his arm, but he was too near success to allow it to distract him.  
  
Judging the distance carefully, he threw up his free hand, catching the edge of the parapet, relieving Steve of some of his weight. From then on, it was relatively easy. With a last groan of exertion, Steve yanked him onto the roof, and never had any surface felt so welcoming.  
  
For a moment the two of them lay still, too exhausted to express the relief they both felt. Steve's chest expanded like bellows as deep breath shuddered into his starving lungs.  
  
I need to lose weight, Mark gasped, expecting caustic agreement from his son, but there was no response.  
  
As the euphoria of survival ebbed, the crushing pain in Mark's wrist brought his focus back to Steve who had not yet released him but lay on his side, right arm cradled against his shirt, perforce drawing his father close.  
  
You can let go now, Mark informed him gently.  
  
There was still no reply, and the continued pressure caused him to yelp. You're hurting me, please let go!  
  
Steve uncoiled slightly, but Mark's wrist remained imprisoned. I can't, he croaked in bewildered alarm. It's not working.  
  
It took a moment for Mark to understand, then appalled comprehension dawned. The death grip his son had held against all odds had been locked tight by every ounce of will in his body, and could not now be relaxed on command.  
  
Let me help, Mark offered, trying to conceal his own discomfort. He took their combined wrists in his free hand, but, as he turned them to a better angle, his own plight vanished in a blast of empathy as he saw the condition of Steve's forearm.  
  
Dear God!  
  
The vulnerable flesh of the inner arm was horribly torn, viciously shredded in the traverse up and down the wooden overhang. Through the thick, seeping blood, it was possible to see the culprits embedded cruelly in the flesh. Large, jagged splinters, some over two inches long, lanced obliquely downwards, the shards looking like straight black worms burrowing obscenely under the skin, and Mark had to swallow the sour bile burning in his throat.  
  
The sheer guts, tenacity and endurance displayed by his son in not only holding on to him with such an injury but actually pulling him up against the thrust of the splinters was truly astounding.  
  
I'm fine, Dad, Steve reassured him wearily, but Mark understood that to mean only that he wasn't actually dead yet.  
  
While he massaged his son's wrist and fingers in an attempt to loosen Steve's grip enough to pry himself free, he took stock of his son's other conspicuous injuries. His cheekbone and temple were adorned by livid bruises and abrasions, and by the unfocused look in the eyes, slight concussion was likely. Both Steve's shirt and pants leg were torn and soaked with blood, mute testimony to bullet wounds.  
  
Mark didn't know where to start. Frustration and concern fought for ascendancy as he contemplated his complete lack of medical supplies to treat his son who was still losing too much blood and was clearly going into shock. His heart was trying to hammer its way out of his ribcage, but he instinctively quelled his panic to concentrate on his son.  
  
Mark's left wrist finally slipped free, and he rubbed his son's cramping fingers, ignoring the pain as he worked sensation back into his own bloodless hand as well, before turning his attention to his son's bleeding leg.  
  
A volley of gunshots brought his attention round in consternation. During the recent life-and-death struggle, he had totally forgotten the external threat. It seemed they had lived through an eternity since reaching the roof, but it could have been no more than five minutes. He looked around frantically for the gun Steve must have dropped, but his son, sensing his intention, grabbed his arm.  
  
It's empty. Please, Dad, get out of here.  
  
Mark didn't bother dignifying that with a response. Ignoring the clamour of complaints in his own joints, he attempted to drag Steve to shelter, doing his best to ignore the ominous stains that gleamed wetly in his wake.  
  
The hatch fell back with a clang, and Mark abandoned his efforts, stepping reflexively in front of his injured son. To his intense surprise, as well as relief, the long form of Masters erupted through the opening, pausing to fire a shot down the ladder before sprinting across the roof. Without a word, he assisted Mark in hauling Steve behind the flimsy shelter of the water tank.  
  
Welcome to the party, Mark grunted.  
  
Steve shifted uncomfortably, working hard at concealing the resulting grimace of pain. Can you hold them off? His eyes refused to focus properly and his whole body felt wrung out, squeezed dry of every drop of energy and strength. He couldn't defend them from an attack of killer marshmallows, never mind organised crime hitmen.  
  
Masters shrugged. Highly unlikely, at least not from a concerted attack. I have three bullets left. He peered around the water tank and fired another shot. he corrected laconically.  
  
Steve watched his father fashioning a tourniquet from a piece of shirt. You two need to take the notebook and get out of here now.  
  
There was no response, and he grabbed his father's arm urgently. If we're caught together, they'll kill us all. It will make things really easy for Canin. He gets the notebook and we're all dead.  
  
Then the Chief can take the notebook, Mark replied evenly, not looking up from staunching the blood flow from Steve's leg.  
  
Dad. You have to listen. Steve tried to sound reasonable, not desperate. If you stay, you'll get us both killed. If you go, they'll keep me alive for leverage to get the notebook.  
  
I'm not leaving you, Mark insisted stubbornly. There's a good chance you'd bleed to death before being rescued. I'm not going. He had no intention of abandoning his son because of a theoretical danger when a real hazard existed.  
  
Then you're condemning us both to death, Steve spat out, but Mark could glimpse the naked fear swimming under the fury in his eyes.  
  
It was an impossible choice. Whichever way he decided, his son was at risk, and the decision tore at Mark's heart, leaving bleeding furrows. In the end, his instinct to stay with his son was stronger than a desire, extending beyond need into a visceral compulsion that resonated to the very core of his being.  
  
I'm not leaving, he stated flatly and started to inspect the wound in Steve's side, although the slight tremble in his hands betrayed his inner agitation.  
  
Steve appealed to Masters who had been ignoring the Sloans' argument in favour of guarding their position. But now he turned to meet the demanding gaze of his subordinate. Silent communication passed between them, old debts recalled, new markers called in, a trust conferred. Masters at last nodded, shuffling backwards closer to Mark.  
  
Dr. Sloan, he called gently. As Mark looked up, a fist impacted with his chin with scientific precision, knocking him unconscious into the arms of his son.  
  
I never thought you'd sit there while I did that, Masters observed dryly.  
  
Try it at any other time and you'll see a different reaction. Steve's expression was grimly forbidding, but his words contained a promise of sorts, and Masters accepted them as such.  
  
Make sure you're around to do that. To be honest, I don't want to face your father's wrath if you're not.  
  
Reversing his gun, he presented it butt first to Steve. Two bullets, remember, he cautioned.  
  
It's enough, Steve affirmed, maneuvering painfully into position as Masters hoisted Mark into a fireman's lift.  
  
Steve fired once as Masters moved towards the ladder and again as the Chief paused on top, vulnerable as his awkward load forced him to steady his balance. At last he disappeared below the level of the roof and Steve slumped against the side of the tank, the last remnants of adrenaline draining from his system once his father was safe. Only semi-conscious, he wasn't sure how long it was before he heard the crunch of feet across the roof towards him. He forced his head up gamely to confront his fate, but could see only a fuzzy, faceless form silhouetted against the skyline as it loomed over him.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17  
  
Masters' blow had not been particularly hard, and Mark started to return to consciousness before they reached the bottom of the ladder. He immediately started to struggle, instinctively aware, even before memory returned, that something was wrong.  
  
Keep still, a hard voice commanded. Or we'll both fall.  
  
As they reached the ground, Masters could tell from the rigidity of the body he held that he would soon be facing the consequences of his forceful actions. As he set Mark down, the doctor's eyes spat fire, in a display of fury few had been privileged to witness. I'm going back up, he declared defiantly, daring Masters to set hands on him again.  
  
Masters shrugged indifferently. It's your choice, but your son is right. This is his best chance.  
  
He's not thinking about himself, Mark refuted hotly. He's only thinking of my safety.  
  
Masters didn't try to deny the truth of that statement, merely continuing with irritating composure. I suggest, Dr. Sloan, that the best way to help Steve now is with more conventional means. Please come with me.  
  
Mark became aware of the dissonant wail of several sirens and, with a feeling of disbelief, realised that only ten or, at the most, fifteen minutes had passed since the first exchange of gunfire in the Chief's room. The yawning distortion of time that made it seem ten times as long was due to the gamut of emotions he had experienced during that time.  
  
With a last longing glance up the ladder, he followed Masters, the Chief's long legs pulling away rapidly. Mark limped after him, ignoring the protest from his ankle at the exertion of the night.  
  
By the time he caught up, Masters was already organising his men in clipped sentences. He sent two officers to guard the bottom of the ladder before leading the largest group into the building. However, the Chief was not too busy to notice Mark's self-inclusion in the company.  
  
His impassive face still managed to convey impatience. Dr. Sloan, we are going into a volatile, potentially lethal situation. You stay here.  
  
The glare from the Chief that followed these words would have intimidated most men, but Mark merely volleyed it, returning it with greater force. My son is wounded and needs immediate medical intention. Unless you intend to arrest me right here, I _am_ coming with you, and if you try that, I have some countercharges of my own I'd like to press.  
  
It was a blatant threat and a clear challenge to the Chief's authority in front of his men, but, after a few seconds, Masters' emotionless stare slid off him with a dismissive nod. O'Brien, keep the Doctor in the back and make sure he doesn't come to any harm.  
  
In the lobby, people were milling in panicked confusion, and Mark had to admire the Chief's masterful command of the situation as he summarily addressed concerns. They discovered that Canin's men had removed the threat from hotel security first. An elderly man in uniform sat on the ground, blood seeping through the white handkerchief he pressed to his head but, for once, Mark suppressed his medical instincts. The man wasn't badly hurt, and he left him for the medics who were following close behind.  
  
They took the stairs in an eerie reprise of Mark's earlier steps, but their progress bore little resemblance to that headlong flight. At each floor, men were sent in to ensure that not only was that area secure, but also that they would not be taken by surprise from behind. Mark wanted to shout with impatience at the delay, but both the fact that he was only there on sufferance, and the knowledge that Masters was following the correct procedure, prevented him from voicing his displeasure.  
  
At the sixth floor, Masters himself led the foray into the hall. Mark started to edge past the body of the gunman that still lay crumpled at the bottom of the flight of stairs but was quickly restrained by his escort. To his relief, Masters returned within a few minutes and, meeting Mark's eyes, he had the decency to indicate with a minimal head shake that they'd found nothing. The deathly quiet and lack of opposition was at odds with the nightmarish memories Mark had of the stairs and it wasn't reassuring. It suggested to him that Canin's men had completed their task and vanished.  
  
They encountered two more bodies on their way up to the roof, testimony to Masters' marksmanship, and it didn't escape Mark's notice that the Chief was first up the ladder, a dangerous position if the gunmen were still on the roof. Mark wasn't sure if he hoped for the hostage situation that would ensue if they were, but it seemed preferable to the alternative. However, an ominous silence greeted the Chief's cautious emergence, and after checking as carefully as possible from the limited field of vision afforded by the hatch, he disappeared through the opening, closely followed by several other officers. Neither shots nor shouts reached Mark's straining ears and, unable to tolerate the wait any longer, he tore his arm free of the restraining grasp and made for the stairs.  
  
Terror curled constrictingly round his heart, squeezing it with vicious, sharp-clawed fingers as he saw Masters standing rigidly by the water tank, staring at the ground. It wasn't a stance taken if a wounded man were nearby. Mark could feel the crunch of every piece of gravel underfoot and the flow of individual molecules of air over painfully oversensitised skin as his steps faltered. Masters turned as he approached, and in that enigmatic stare Mark sensed a trace of compassion. His leaden feet rebelled before he reached the corner and he wavered to a halt, unable to force himself further, a heartwrenching cry imploding in his soul.  
  
He felt as if he were again dangling off a precipice facing a shattering fall, but this time his son's strong hand did not stand between him and oblivion. He was alone. Despite the frantic denial he tried to maintain, he feared that Steve's lifeless body lay just beyond his line of sight. His limbs grew heavy and his vision swirled as his mind threatened to shut down to protect him from that horror.  
  
A supportive hand closed on his swaying shoulder. He's not here, Doctor. Masters' deep voice was surprisingly gentle as he tugged Mark round the corner to witness the empty space. His instinctive relief was short-lived as his eyes beheld the irregular dark patches staining the ground -- Steve's blood. He suddenly became aware of the blood smeared stickily on his own hands and the sleeves of his shirt that were stiff, encrusted with the same viscous fluid. It was a poignant reminder of how badly Steve was hurt, and the image of his son, injured and a prisoner, came vividly to mind. He tried to stomp it down so he could concentrate on his next move, but it refused to leave him as he stared at the blood through eyes that no longer had the ability to see clearly.  
  
Mark's thoughts were a chaotic mess, coming and going at random, bouncing uncharacteristically from place to place and he couldn't focus on any one thing for long before the pain of his son's loss rose up and scattered it, leaving him to start again.  
  
Masters watched the emotions that paraded over the Doctor's face, the dazed look giving way to an unspeakable pain so raw it affected even the unemotional police chief.  
  
Dr. Sloan... He searched for something comforting to offer. We'll get him back.  
  
Yes, we will. The agreement was faint at first, and the Chief felt a shudder pass through the suddenly vulnerable shoulder under his hand. However, with an act of indomitable will, knowing his son was relying on him, Mark forced himself to concentrate.  
  
Yes, we will, he repeated again with blazing determination. He shook off the Chief's hand and turned on Masters.  
  
For starters, I'm not turning the notebook over to you. Don't think for a moment I am. You need to follow my plan exactly, and I swear if you don't, I'll...  
  
Doctor, you're assuming I don't want to get him back as much as you do, Masters interrupted mildly. Seeing the real anguish on the father's face, he mentally amended, almost as much as you.  
  
Mark nodded his appreciation. Then listen to me.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Chief Masters escorted Mark Sloan back to the ground floor of the hotel. The doctor's ankle had given way entirely, so the Chief was, of necessity, supporting him. However, as they emerged into the confusion of pulsing lights reflecting off the walls from emergency vehicles and the flashes from the journalists' cameras, Masters unwound Mark's arm from his shoulders and called over one of his subordinates.

Kaczinski, place Dr. Sloan under arrest -- suspicion of murder, and aiding and abetting a fugitive.

Mark stared at him in stunned confusion. What?... No!... I didn't... The blood still smearing his cheek contrasted with the pallor of his face, which stood out starkly in the flashing lights of the cameras as he protested over the familiar drone of his rights being read. He paled further as cuffs were placed on the wrist already bruised by his son's frantic grip.

The flinch didn't escape Masters' attention. Dr. Sloan needs medical attention. Kaczinski, escort him to Community General. Walters, go with him.

Mark was hustled into a waiting ambulance, and the vehicle moved off slowly, hindered by the thick crowd of people. On the journey to the hospital, he tolerated the ministrations of the paramedics, suppressing what he knew was irrational guilt that his minor injuries were receiving treatment while his son's severe lacerations and gunshot wounds were almost certainly being neglected. His emotions were spinning uncontrollably, like tumbleweed scattering seeds before the wind, perpetually revolving around the desolate landscape of his mind.

He longed for some privacy to regain his composure, but that was impossible in the crowded confines of the ambulance. The two stolid policemen watched him impassively throughout the examination, and even the impersonal concern of the paramedics grated on his nerves.

The situation didn't improve as he arrived at the hospital. The news of his arrest had quickly spread through the journalistic community, and they crowded around, shouting out impertinent and hurtful questions, as he was wheeled into the emergency room. When those questions touched on his son, it took all the restraint of which he was capable to prevent himself from putting the record straight, clearing those misconceptions and his son's name.

There were more hospital staff around than strictly necessary, curiosity obviously leading them to gawk idly. However, the only two faces that Mark really noticed were those of Jesse and Amanda, and the sight of his two loyal friends lightened his aching heart.

The mounting fury in Jesse's usually cheerful face cleared the room of extraneous personnel, and then he turned on the accompanying officers.

Remove those cuffs, right away!

Kaczinski ventured a protest. Dr. Sloan is under arrest.. but Jesse overrode him.

And is clearly going nowhere. Get them off him now!

When the restraints were removed, Jesse's physician's eye caught Mark's wince, and he gently caught hold of the older doctor's arm, examining the severe bruising. Who did this? He turned on the cops, clearing willing to take them on if Mark's response warranted it.

It's a long story, Jess, Mark said wearily. I think my ankle's broken too.

Jesse rounded on the two officers again. As I said, he's clearly going nowhere. Wait outside while I carry out the examination.

With a confirming glance at each other, the cops acceded. We'll be outside the room.

As the door closed quietly behind them, Amanda and Jesse both turned expectantly to Mark, concern apparent. Where's Steve? Is he okay?

Mark shook his head bitterly. No, he's not; he's hurt and Canin's men have him.

Fine tremors coursed through him, and he looked so helpless that Amanda pulled him into a hug. For a moment, he allowed himself the comfort of her embrace, but then, with an gentle pat to her arm, he pulled away.

Jesse, I'm alright. Please, just take me to x-ray. We'll have the chance to talk later.

Jesse shook his head. Mark, you look like you're on the edge of collapse. If I breathe on you, you'll topple over. I'm going to give you a thorough examination.

Jesse felt the change under his fingers as if Mark had called on unknown reserves to refute the accusation, and the hand that caught Jesse's arm had a strong grip. Steve doesn't have much time.

Jesse saw the intensity of desperation in his friend and mentor's eyes and compromised as far as he was able. I'll work as quickly as I can, he said gently but firmly.

Recognising that the young doctor was adamant, Mark submitted with as good a grace as he could muster, summarising the events of that night while Jesse worked.

Jesse kept his promise to be as quick as possible, but found it difficult to concentrate during Mark's narrative. The older doctor spoke in a near monotone, over-compensating in his effort to control his wayward emotions, but, by the end, his composure was buckling under the strain of recalling his son's injuries and the manner in which they had been received. Hair-line cracks in his self-control widened to fissures through which his despair and anguish bled poignantly.

As Jesse suspected, Mark was suffering mostly from exhaustion and stress. He dressed the cut on the older doctor's face, and then they took him down to X-ray. On their return, they found Masters waiting, and Jesse immediately went on the offensive.

Chief Masters, is it departmental policy to cuff people with broken wrists, because such conduct is reprehensible, in fact I would say actionable?

For a second, there was a flicker of emotion in the Chief's impassive face, but then it was gone, and he merely responded sardonically. If I had known the Doctor's wrist was broken, I would not have ordered handcuffs, but that knowledge was not made available to me.

Deprived of a convenient target, Jesse deflated somewhat then rallied to report, Well, Dr. Sloan has a broken wrist, a broken ankle and many other contusions besides. He's also suffering from extreme exhaustion.

Masters inclined his head. Then, he may stay in the hospital until such time as, in your opinion, Dr Travis, he is ready for transfer. But I need to talk to him now.He's in no condition... Jesse started hotly, but Mark interrupted.

It's okay, Jesse, I don't mind; although there's nothing useful I can tell him.

They made Mark comfortable on the bed then, as Jesse started the cast for Mark's ankle, Masters commenced his interrogation, standing at the foot of the bed, his two men behind him by the door.

Dr. Sloan. Can you tell us the whereabouts of your son?I don't know where he is. The bleak tones carried conviction and, after a pause, Masters changed tacks.

I believe you have in your possession a notebook, handed to you by Elise Latiere, that was the property of her husband, Robert Latiere. I would like you to hand that notebook to me now. It was politely phrased, but held an implacable edge.

Mark blinked up at him obstinately. I don't know what you're talking about. Elise gave me photos, nothing more.Dr. Sloan, your cooperation in this matter could go a long way to reducing the charges currently held against you and your son.I don't have a notebook. Search me if you like. Mark closed his eyes, signaling the discussion was at an end.

Dr. Sloan... This time, Masters' voice held a decided tone of impatience.

Jesse got to his feet, his hands still dripping from the plaster of Paris. Okay, that's enough. Dr Sloan is not a young man and has been through a terrible ordeal. I said _questions_ were allowed, not browbeating. Besides, if you have any more questions' I think his lawyer should be present, don't you?

Masters eyed Jesse inimically for several seconds, but then gave a curt nod and led his men out of the room, pausing to give them directions. No one is to go in or out of this room except for essential medical personnel, understood? I'll make sure you're relieved at 0600.

As the friends were left alone, Mark looked across at Jesse with a wounded expression. Not a young man? he queried mournfully, with a ghost of a smile.

Believe me, only someone who didn't know you very well would fall for that line, Jesse said fervently. He completed the cast on Mark's ankle and gently took hold of his arm. You have a Stage Two lunate fracture in your wrist, so I need to immobilise that too.

As he finished, Jesse looked down at his friend, concern easy to read in his expression. You need to get some rest.

Mark nodded. Thank you both. He squeezed Amanda's hand gratefully. Her dark eyes were luminous with worry.

Are you sure I can't stay?I'll be alright, honey. He smiled encouragingly.

As they left, he relaxed into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as he allowed himself a moment of unguarded reaction in the first solitude he'd experienced since Steve had disappeared.

It didn't take long before it dawned on him, however, that privacy was overrated and came at the price of a deficit of distractions. His entire body ached with exhaustion and worry, but sleep was out of the question. He lay helplessly while the fate of his badly injured son was unknown, and it was the worst torture he could have envisaged. The doctor in him informed the frantic father of the innumerable unpleasant consequences of gunshot wounds going untreated.

He was even denied the outlet of pacing, forcing his mind to compensate for the unnatural stillness of his body. Fear shaped him as he lay there, sculpting his heart, wearing him down like wind and acid rain on limestone, leaving only the pure, elemental core of a father's love.

He knew he held his son's life in his hands as surely as Steve had earlier held his, and, just as his son's grasp had never faltered, neither could he now. He had to remain vigilant, refining his plan and staying flexible in the face of developments.

A new day dawned, and soon the sun threaded through a gap in the blinds, searing a hole in the centre of his forehead as he shifted restlessly. He feigned sleep as a nurse came in to check his vital signs, then after her departure, picked at the breakfast that had been brought, knowing he needed the energy food would provide, but unable to summon any appetite.

He watched the clock on the wall, every second grating in its passing, an abrasive grain of sand trickling through the hour-glass as hope tipped inexorably to despair. Eventually, he turned on the TV, tuning into a Spanish channel, wanting the sound of human voices but not feeling up to the effort of following conversation.

It wasn't until after lunch had arrived and departed entirely untouched that Mark felt a vibration from the phone he had planted against his thigh. Fumbling in his haste to answer, he finally got it to his ear.

The desperate hope spilled unbidden from his lips even though he knew the chances were vanishingly small that his son could have retained his phone and initiated contact.

Your son is unable to come to the phone right now, Dr Sloan. The voice at the other end was low and hoarse. It didn't sound like the man was deliberately disguising his identity, but it was an unusual timbre, not one Mark recognised.

Is he alright? Mark's own voice was high with anxiety.

He seems to be feeling distinctly unwell, which may be of grave concern to you but is a matter of complete indifference to me. Now, I have something you want, and I believe you have something of mine. I suggest a trade.

Faint hope flared inside Mark and he strove to keep his voice steady and not betray his eagerness. I just want my son back; I don't care about the notebook. What do you want me to do?I'll set up an exchange, and you will do exactly what I say. The tone was uncompromising and icily menacing.

Look, I'll do whatever you want, Mark reassured him hastily. But I'm under arrest with two cops at my door and I've also got a broken ankle. He tried to sound more helpless than he was, wanted to build up the enemy's overconfidence.

I'll take care of the details. Sit tight for now; you'll know when the time comes to make your move. But don't even think of involving the cops, or I'll mail your son back to you in little pieces. The last words were spat out with venom, carrying total conviction, and Mark's stomach lurched nauseatingly at the threat and the mental image it evoked. His subsequent protest was weak.

Wait! How do I know you aren't going to take the notebook and kill us both anyway?

His interlocutor sounded coldly amused. You have no choice. But I'll give you all the time you want to think about it...oh wait! I don't think your son has the luxury of time.

Mark really hated the smug cruelty in the voice and didn't trust him an inch. He tried to sound firm in his counter-demand. I want to talk to my son. I need to know he's still alive.That can be arranged, but don't try anything funny, or your son will pay.

There was silence for a few moments then he heard a voice, perilously weak, but still recognisably Steve's. It picked up strength for one desperate command, 

The solid thud of a fist hitting flesh reached Mark clearly down the phone, meant as a reprimand and a warning, causing Mark to cry out in anguished impotence. No, don't hurt him!

The roiling awareness of his son's suffering encompassed his whole focus, driving away the consideration of his own precarious position. He'd forgotten the guards outside his door, but his loud outburst alerted them. Mark barely had time to tuck the phone under the covers, concealing the abrupt movement by lurching into a sitting position before a burly man he didn't recognise poked his head in, asking with admirable concern, You okay, Doc?Just a nightmare. Mark offered him a weak smile.

You want me to call someone?

Mark waved off the kind offer. I'm fine, thank you.

As the door closed, Mark hurriedly pulled the phone back to his ear but the connection had been cut, and only a dead silence greeted him. He leaned back weakly into the pillows. Nightmare' was correct as, for a moment, he surrendered to the horrific image of his sorely injured son receiving more abuse. He felt like a fish impaled and gutted by a spear and savagely yanked out of his environment, left to flop uselessly on the alien ground, gasping futilely for breath.

This contact was what he'd hoped for and planned for, but the casual brutality meted out to his son reminded him that he wasn't in control of the situation, and that the enemy weren't puppets dancing to his tune. He had set a roller-coaster into motion, but they knew the track better than he did and could change the points, adding extra loops and curves or merely derailing the cars altogether, and his son, traveling without a seat belt, would be the first casualty.

Mark fought desperately to think clearly enough to generate improvements to his plan that would enhance Steve's chances of survival, but his mind still floundered at the acute awareness of the fragility of his son's life, leaving him reeling with helpless anger and fear. But now he also had hope, and it enveloped him like his own skin, the only thing holding him together; without it, everything would spill out and shatter into tiny pieces.

In the loneliness of his room, he waited.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N Since I'm shortly leaving on vacation, the next chapter of Fugitives will not be posted until the Monday after Thanksgiving - my apologies for the delay!

Chapter 19

Awareness beckoned, teasing him with fragmented sounds and the mercifully fleeting touch of cruel hands, then the voices receded, removing the urgency of his awakening. He lay in a feverish nether-world of uncomfortable semi-consciousness until an injudicious move launched a domino effect of painful spasms that jolted through his body, jerking him brutally awake, then nearly catapulting him back into the darkness. He lay on his side, retching miserably and, although the empty state of his stomach precluded that from being a productive activity, even dry heaves were painful to abused ribs.

With gently exploring fingers, he found a new knot on his temple where a gun butt had been applied to ensure he was in no state to protest his relocation -- a gratuitous act in his opinion since he had been well on his way to falling gracefully unconscious without assistance. He cracked an eye cautiously, waiting for the room to steady sufficiently to appreciate his new surroundings, but the dim light, from what seemed to be a free-floating bulb over his head, was entirely too bright for the current state of his constitution, and he shut it again hastily to concentrate on subduing his rebellious stomach.

Keeping as still as possible to inhibit the internal undulations that continued to threaten his equilibrium, he attempted another visual exploration of the scenery, assuring himself as best he could that his tribulations were going unobserved. Although the room was empty, the red eye of a video camera mounted high on the wall opposite shattered the illusion of privacy and made him suspect that the space had been used before to house reluctant guests.

Unwilling to provide any more inadvertent entertainment to electronic observers, he gritted his teeth to prevent verbal or involuntary abdominal outbursts as he dragged himself painstakingly to lean against a wall perpendicular to the camera, feeling slightly less vulnerable in that position. Once the room had finished its resulting gyrations, he again attempted to take stock of his environment. It was clearly underground, a veritable dungeon, one small and dusty rack of bottles announcing its original function as a wine-cellar.

The room was musty, cool and far from clean, and once Steve's eyes could track sufficiently to spot the tiny droppings, he realised it was almost certainly inhabited by rats, an exceedingly unpleasant prospect in his vulnerable state. The only other item of interest was a tall flight of wooden stairs leading up to a door, yet even if a kind kidnapper had inadvertently left it unlocked, Steve knew he was incapable of exploring the opportunity to escape at that time. The wall against which he was leaning was more than just a convenient prop, it was the only thing keeping him sitting upright.

He had a vague recollection of reading an article that claimed you could only feel one source of pain at a time, but whoever wrote that was a liar or inexperienced, since all his injuries were clamouring for attention simultaneously.

He didn't bother checking under the blood-soaked bandage covering his thigh or lifting his shirt to inspect the damage there, and a few, controlled breaths reassured him that his ribs were bruised not broken. But he could scarcely avoid looking at his right forearm, an extremely unpleasant sight, he decided. He pondered the wisdom of pulling out some of the more accessible splinters, balancing the probability of blood-poisoning against that of blood loss, but decided that, even as a way to wile away the time, that occupation lacked appeal.

His father would know the best treatment under the circumstances, but the one bright spot in the whole scenario was that Mark was safe and undoubtedly working for his return, though such an outcome carried with it the inevitable accompaniment of facing the music for his actions on the rooftop. He'd probably be grounded for life.

He idly wondered how Masters had fared against his father's wrath, but such fascinating musings were interrupted by the grating of a key in the lock and the door at the top of the stairs creaking open.

Instead of watching the triumphal procession down the stairs, he leant his head back against the wall and tried to gather his scattered thoughts. It occurred to him that it might be a mistake to reveal how much he knew about Canin and his organisation. Ignorance made him and his father less of a threat, but he couldn't think of a plausible stance to take. His demeanor would be just as unfriendly if he believed Canin was still working as a cop and he didn't want to break his cover. Just thinking about the layers of subterfuge in the encounter exacerbated his headache, and he settled for bland disinterest as, with an effort, he forced his eyes up to meet Canin's.

Obviously deciding that Steve was no threat in his present condition, and maybe not wanting any revelations Steve had to be made public, Canin had dispensed with bodyguards and ventured down alone. Steve glanced towards the camera but, at this angle, he couldn't see if it was recording.

he acknowledged coldly. Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?A smart cop like you, Sloan, and you haven't figured it out yet. Canin looked smug but kept a cautious distance from his prisoner.

Enlighten me, Steve replied dryly, too tired for these games.

This is all mine now, Canin gestured expansively.

Steve looked round the dingy cellar, deliberately misunderstanding. Well, congratulations, he said sarcastically.

The Ganza family controls all organised crime in Southern California, and I control the Ganza family, Canin elaborated.

You're a cop, Canin, one of the good guys, remember? Steve suddenly felt like Luke Skywalker trying to turn Darth Vadar away from the Dark side of the Force.

Yeah, I risked my neck on a daily basis for the ingratitude of the general population and a measly salary of seventy-five thousand a year. Now, I control billions.That's what this is about? Steve asked incredulously. Money? You killed your fellow officers for money?

Canin seemed more amused than stung by the contempt in Steve's tone. We don't all have a rich father and live at the beach. I grew up on these streets with nothing. I made myself what I am.A murderer? A traitor? You took an oath. All the passion and commitment Steve felt for the police force was contained in those few words, but Canin dismissed them casually.

Don't be such a boy scout, Sloan.

Steve wished he had a dollar for every time he'd heard that unoriginal line. At least I can look at myself in the mirror every morning, he returned scathingly. You've become everything a cop despises: a money-grubbing, treacherous parasite.

This time he touched a nerve. The pale eyes opposite him blazed with fury and, for a moment, Steve braced himself in expectation of a blow. He almost hoped for that outcome, for if Canin ventured close enough to hit him, he had every intention of tackling the rogue cop, bum leg or not. Canin would be a very useful hostage, and Steve was longing to get his hands on him.

Up to that point, he had entertained reservations as to Canin's guilt, perhaps wanting to give a fellow cop the benefit of the doubt, but now, for the first time, he was faced with inescapable proof of the depth of Canin's perfidy, and it was dawning on him that, not only was the man so smugly confronting him responsible for the death of his colleagues and their horrific experiences on the run, but he also had ordered Mark's execution. The heat of anger seared through his blood, and he would have loved nothing more than to vent his feelings by pounding on the man responsible.

To his regret, Canin stayed out of range, respecting Steve's training and physical abilities.

Canin eyed him speculatively. You know, you and your father have caused me a lot of trouble and expense.I'm so sorry, Steve replied with polite insincerity.

Moreover, you have something that belongs to me, and I want it back.

Steve cocked an eyebrow, the only movement that didn't cost more energy than he had. I don't think I have anything, your men have already searched me.If you don't have it, your father does. Canin didn't miss the powerful wave of tension that radiated from Steve at the mention of Mark, though the injured man made no verbal response.

Did you know he's under arrest? Canin goaded.

Steve attempted to conceal his dismay at this news, unsure what could have led to that. Had Masters betrayed them after all or was this some misguided attempt to protect his father?

Canin crouched down just out of reach. Where's the notebook? A threat was implicit in his soft tones.

This time Steve's reaction was immediate. Go to hell!

Canin smiled. I can send you there first. The men guarding your father are in my pay. He bent forward confidingly. I can have him taken out any time I want.

At that threat to Mark, the fury that had been bubbling perilously close to the surface, like lava flowing under a thin crust, burst forth in a molten explosion of rage.

He launched himself bodily at his tormentor with all the strength he could muster in his good leg. Canin, taken off guard, stumbled as he tried to get to his feet and back away simultaneously, and Steve was on him, his momentum boring Canin into the ground hard. The struggle should have been one-sided, for Steve's injuries were too severe for him to stand a chance against a fit, well-trained opponent, but the crescendo of rage swelling inside coupled with the satisfaction of finally meting out revenge for all the dangers and indignities he and his father had suffered, drowned out the pain and overrode the ensuing weakness.

The first well-placed blow of his fist had dazed Canin, and now Steve's superior weight held him down as he focused all his anger and fear for his father into the power of his arm throttling the dirty cop underneath him. Unable to escape the inexorable choking hand, Canin had the presence of mind to grab Steve's injured arm, squeezing it cruelly.

Black spots swam dizzily before Steve's eyes, and his vision seemed to be caught in a roaring tornado which narrowed his line of sight down to the congested face in front of him. He focused his considerable will-power on maintaining his grasp, much as he had done on the roof earlier, but the maelstrom of his senses blinded him to the arrival of Canin's reinforcements, alerted by the video feed from the camera. A blow to the head completed Steve's descent into semi-consciousness, and they were able to drag him off their boss, tossing him into a limp heap across the room.

Humiliated by the need for rescue, Canin planted a vicious foot in Steve's side, but, deprived of a satisfactory response, he soon desisted. You're lucky I still need you alive, he growled hoarsely, massaging his bruised throat.

Steve's earlier consolation that at least Mark was safe had evaporated. He hoped Canin's boast was merely an empty threat but, even in his dazed state, realised that the most likely explanation was that the Chief was using his father as bait, with or without Mark's consent.

Laboriously, he retraced his earlier movements, though this time he dragged himself under the CCTV, hoping that would place him under its field of vision, needing that privacy.

He was left unmolested for several hours, except for the provision of a jug of water for which he was eminently grateful. He was shivering with the beginnings of a fever and presumed that infection was setting into both his leg and forearm. The constant throb of agony from his many wounds was exhausting, and he was light-headed from repeated blows and the loss of blood.

He longed to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, his concussed and feverish mind relived the desperate minutes where he'd held onto his father with failing strength and he'd jerk awake, disoriented, grasping desperately for the reassurance of Mark's wrist under his fingers.

Exhaustion only added to the turmoil in his mind as it flittered incoherently from nightmare to memory, and his body twitched as his muscles reacted instinctively to the mental images of running, falling and fighting.

At times, in an effort to pull himself back from the twilight world of confusion, he recited his name, badge number and address, using the concrete facts of his identity to displace his disorientation. Time seemed to have no meaning without external means to separate pain-filled minutes from hours, and full consciousness was too slippery to grasp.

In the brief periods of greater lucidity that punctuated the more general confusion, he drank thirstily from the water jug. Once, as he reached out, he found a fly struggling in the lukewarm liquid and watched as its frantic struggles faded to intermittent movements before, with a certain amount of fellow feeling for its imprisonment, he offered it a finger as a life preserver.

When the door opened next, a rush of adrenaline helped him rally, and he glared stonily, if a little blurrily, at Canin as he descended the stairs. This time, the cop-turned-mobster was taking no chances, and two of his men seized Steve's arms, pulling them behind him and jerking him to his feet.

Already strained muscles in his back and arms protested the position of restraint, and he could feel fresh blood trickle down his stomach from the wound on his ribs, but the defiance in his expression did not dim.

Canin didn't look as smug now, merely dangerous, and the sight of him prompted the memory of the casual violence the man had dispensed in Ian Trainer's office. The bruises he had inflicted on Canin's throat brought a brief smile to Steve's face, but it quickly disappeared at the mobster's words.

I think it's time we invited your father to this party.

The automatic tensing of his muscles that the suggestion precipitated reminded Steve of how tightly he was restrained. He gave a short laugh with no humour behind it. You can beat me to a pulp and I wouldn't do anything to endanger my father.

Canin's smile was unpleasantly triumphant as he pulled a small object out of his pocket - the cell phone Jesse had given him. Then it's lucky for both of us that I have this.He's under arrest, remember. Steve tried to make the words sound casual. They probably took his away from him.They didn't.

Canin's grin was so hateful that Steve longed to remove it by the simple expedient of a fist through his teeth. But that pleasure was denied him. He remembered Canin's boast that his men had been in charge of Mark's arrest.

Jesse had preprogrammed his and Mark's number into the cell-phone's memory, and Steve could do nothing but watch in dismay as Canin accessed the numbers, then listen in impotent fury to Canin's side of the conversation, knowing his father well enough to fill in every word of his response.

It was obvious Mark was asking to speak to him, and Steve's pulse raced at the opportunity, the throbbing echoing painfully in his arm, ribs and leg. There had to be something useful he could say in the brief moment, maybe something only his father would understand. But his addled brain refused to cooperate, and he could think of nothing useful. He had no idea where he was, and Mark already knew that Canin had him.

Canin gave him the obligatory caution not to say anything stupid, and he was given an admonishing shake that left him dizzy.

He was appalled at the weakness in his own voice, but the next word was summoned up from the very depth of his soul, a warning, command and plea all rolled into one desperate word. 

He was braced for the retribution he knew would come, but the blow to his already injured ribs left him too breathless to even cry out, for which he was grateful. He sagged momentarily between the two behemoths holding him, but then forced himself upright as he saw Canin preparing to leave.

The low, almost choking, words brought the mobster's attention reluctantly back to his ex-colleague. If you hurt my father, I'll kill you.

It should have been absurd, an empty threat from a desperate man, but the passion in the voice carried conviction, and a shiver of fear ran down Canin's back as he remembered what this man had achieved before, barely off his death-bed, for his father's sake. They'd all had their agendas at that time, but Steve's was the only one clearly stated and pursued with a single-minded intensity that bordered on obsession. His first priority had been clearing his father and getting him out of jail, and he'd badgered and cajoled and pushed himself and everybody up to and including the Chief of Police, until he'd succeeded.

Canin had already been embarrassed by this cop once in front of his men, and he couldn't afford to show more weakness, so he shrugged off the vow, gesturing to his men to drop Steve and follow him out. As a last sadistic gesture, he flicked off the light, leaving Steve in molasses-thick blackness.

The dark of his prison seemed like a tangible force, pressing coldly on his chest and clogging his lungs with the stench of death. A rustle from a corner reminded him of the other occupants of the cellar.

He knew he was getting sicker, the fever radiating off his skin in waves, his face flushed. The agony in his ribs was a fire consuming him, and the throbbing in his head told him he was suffering from a concussion. He tried to slow his breathing, taking quick shallow breaths, trying to control the pain.

Dad.' Steve's awareness diminished one breath at a time until only that word remained. If anyone could outwit Canin and his whole organisation it was his father. Steve had immense faith in his father's abilities to do everything from planning a successful, multi-million-dollar robbery to catching the most elusive criminal -- given time. He wanted to trust that Mark had everything under control, but he also knew that his father would come for him, plan or not, willingly launching himself with no sense of self-preservation if he knew his son needed him.

Steve could no longer sit passively while his father marched into danger. The lack of illumination gave him a chance to move unobserved, and enabled him to prepare a surprise for the next visitor. Climbing the stairs in his condition was the equivalent of ascending Everest unassisted, but stubborn determination and fear for Mark overrode his sense of the impossible. Each movement, no matter how small, sent a stab of coruscating pain through his injuries, and his dizziness increased exponentially, but the slats of the wooden stairs provided secure handholds that prevented him toppling back down as he inched his way like a blind, wounded snake up the stairs.

He tried to decide which hurt worse, his arm, leg or head, and let the effort of deciding distract him from the pain in his side until a groping hand informed him that he'd succeeded in reaching the top of the stairs. Remembering that the door opened inwards, he installed himself against the wall on the other side, wrapping his good arm around the railing to anchor his exhausted body. He dropped his aching head limply back against the wall, quelling his rebellious stomach. He was sure that they would come for him when Mark arrived, and he had to remain alert to utilise every speck of advantage his position of surprise might bring. Meanwhile, in the musty basement, made colder by the fever raging within, Steve waited.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20  
  
When his door finally opened, Mark tensed expectantly, but it was only Amanda with a tray of food.

It's dinnertime, Dr. Sloan, she said in business-like tones before the door clicked shut behind her.

What are you doing here? Mark demanded anxiously. Is something wrong?I wanted to make sure you're doing okay, and besides, you really need to eat something. She noticed the worry etched into the worn lines of his pale face and how still he kept, as if he were holding himself tight to prevent himself flying off into little pieces. Have you heard anything? she asked gently, sitting down on the side of the bed.

Steve's alive. Mark tried to reassure both of them, but his face was stark and his voice heavy as he remembered the price his son had paid for that confirmation.

Thank God for that, Amanda said fervently. Is he okay? Mark said bleakly. His voice broke under the effort of putting the horror into words, and he looked away while he fought his emotions and brought them under control.

Amanda clasped his hand comfortingly, wishing she could do more by way of support. You'll get him back, she told him with confidence.

Mark appreciated the brief visit and the concern of his friends, but he couldn't afford the company right now. Thanks, honey. His voice was little more than a choked whisper, but he cleared his throat and produced a genuine smile. You must go now and stay away. I'll be fine.

She stood up reluctantly, with a final squeeze of his hand. Eat your food, she insisted firmly.

Amanda's gentle sympathy had lowered Mark's defenses and, once alone, his eyes glazed and burned with tears he refused to shed. He blinked them away, but exhaustion and fear seeped into his bones, stealing away the last vestiges of his energy.

It had been 36 hours since he'd last slept, and he debated the wisdom of taking a quick nap, knowing his head would be clearer for the healing influence of sleep. Before he could persuade his mind to release the overwhelming tension that grasped it, a dull thud from out in the hall alerted him to unusual happenings outside his room.

He sat up, suddenly alert, as the door opened and one of the police officers entered, dragging the inert body of his companion, the man who'd checked on Mark earlier. His medical instincts aroused, Mark asked with concern, Is he alright? What happened?Shut up and do what you're told. The cop was sweating heavily despite the pleasant temperature of the room, and he ran a nervous tongue over dry lips. He's just taking a little nap, don't worry. A little Versed in his coffee.

Mark swung his legs out of the bed, balancing gingerly on his foot. How much was he given?

The cop ignored him, peering out the door and gesturing in a man dressed in an orderly's uniform and pushing a wheelchair. Get in the chair. If anyone asks, we're escorting you down to physical therapy.

Mark satisfied himself that the cop on the ground had a regular pulse and was breathing properly, then obeyed the order, his own heart pounding more at the anticipation of seeing his son again than at the realisation that he was delivering himself into the hands of the enemy.

Ever curious, he tipped his head up to stare at the crooked cop. Isn't my absence going to be a little hard to explain?A little drink of coffee and I take a nap too. We've both been drugged by your accomplices and you escape. Maybe not too good for my career, but that's in the toilet anyway. The bitterness in his voice was matched by the acrimony in his expression, but as he turned away from Mark there was a strange pop behind them and a dark, wet flower blossomed briefly above a hole in his uniform, and he crumpled to the ground, dead eyes staring at the ceiling.

Mark whirled around, stunned, to face the killer, for a brief moment thinking he'd be next, more surprised than fearful. But the orderly merely unscrewed the silencer with gloved hands, replacing it in his pocket and throwing the gun on the ground. Mark followed its line of flight, his gaze skittering back to the dead policeman. The man was a traitor, but he didn't deserve to die like that.

Get back in the chair, Dr. Sloan.

Mark turned back to meet the flat, emotionless eyes of the assassin. he demanded.

The man shrugged, unaffected by the casual brutality of his actions. The gun belongs to your son.

Mark nodded slowly, able to fill in the rest. It was a frame up, one intended to insure that Steve could never turn back to the department for help, and maybe also that his death would not be closely investigated. It would be assumed that Steve had killed a fellow cop while breaking his father out of the hospital. However, as he lowed himself stiffly into the wheelchair, Mark had to suppress an almost hysterical laugh as he recognised that the gun wasn't his son's, but the weapon lent to him by Masters. If they ran the prints on it, there would be a shock in the department. The mistake on Canin's part was oddly reassuring, proving he was far from infallible.

Mark kept his face lowered as they emerged from the room, not wanting to catch anybody's eye and cause comment, but this wing of the floor was quiet, and they arrived at the elevator without incurring comment. Mark heaved a sigh of relief as the elevator door closed behind them.

The killer dug into a bag behind the wheelchair and came up with a jacket which he threw at Mark before draping a blanket over his knees. Lastly, he gave him a hat. It was a minimal disguise, and Mark knew it wouldn't pass muster against the prying eyes of any journalists who doggedly remained outside.

How're we getting out? he asked, ready to offer helpful assistance to prevent the possibility of any more deaths.

Service entrance, the man replied laconically.

Mark had no better suggestion, so he kept quiet. Their exit was achieved without complications, and he was wheeled to a car and transferred to the passenger seat. The wheelchair was left abandoned forlornly on the sidewalk as they drove away.

Mark stole a glance at the driver, fighting a sense of unreality as they cruised peacefully through the streets. His appearance was unremarkable, thinning brown hair fading back from an average face. Illogically, Mark felt that it would have been easier to come to terms with cold-blooded murder if cruelty were apparent in the demeanor of the killer. Reducing the taking of human life to the level of a business transaction was more chilling than overt viciousness. The man was unfazed by Mark's scrutiny as he maneuvered easily through the heavy rush-hour traffic.

Their route seemed aimless, and Mark realised that the man was checking for any signs of covert pursuit. The frequent lane changes and unexpected weaving between vehicles were designed to expose a shadow. Mark knew no one was following, so he shut his eyes, allowing the rhythmic motion of the car to rock him into an uneasy doze, knowing he'd need his wits about him if he was to ensure his son's survival in the upcoming confrontation.

He woke up abruptly at the cessation of noise and movement as the car stopped and the engine was turned off. In the twilight he could see nothing but a deserted cliff. Although his head was still fuzzy from long-denied sleep, a sliver of fear still penetrated his bemusement.

What's going on? he asked thickly. He met the bland eyes of the killer sitting next to him.

Just precautions, nothing to worry about.

The man slid smoothly out of the car, walking round to open Mark's door and assisting him to his feet. He frisked Mark in a careful but impersonal manner then threw him some clothes with orders to change. Mark did as he was instructed, grateful for the warm evening air, but struggling with maneuvering while burdened by two casts. The pants simply wouldn't fit over his leg cast and after a mild protest he was allowed to retain his pajama bottoms after the killer had searched every inch of material.

His clothes, including the cell phone, were left in a small heap on the cliff top, and Mark was allowed back in the car. His driver was in no hurry to leave, leaning against the hood and smoking a cigarette as he watched the last rays of the sun dissolving into the glittering ocean.

Eventually he heard the killer pull out his own cell phone. No activity here, we're clear, and Mark allowed himself one satisfied smile before settling back into the appearance of sleep that soon slipped into reality.

Some atavistic instinct warned him when they were nearing their destination, and he awoke as they drove through the steel gates, guarded by two armed men and an array of cameras, to an impressive mansion. The exterior was ostentatious, with a grand stairway leading to a columned portico, but Mark's gaze lingered longest on the high walls surrounding it which were topped with barbed wire, giving the edifice more the feel of a fortress than a residence. Fear snaked up Mark's spine at the sight of such formidable defenses.

The steps proved something of a hindrance to a man in a leg cast. His escort produced a crutch, but since his left arm was also in a cast, his mobility remained considerably impaired.

The architecture inside was also impressive, but although he automatically memorised the layout of the building, Mark's eyes were busy searching for his son, and he was in no mood for art appreciation. He was shown into a large room, illuminated, in the absence of light through the large French windows, by an elaborate chandelier.

There was classic artwork on the walls and luxurious studded leather armchairs in which three men sat, clustered around a leather-bound oak desk. Two were heavyset with a brutish quality Mark associated with a professional thug, but the third immediately captured his attention. He was lean but wiry, with eerily pale eyes that glittered triumphantly at the sight of Mark.

Dr. Sloan, so glad you could join us.

Mark leaned heavily on his crutch. Ross Canin, he acknowledged blandly.

My fame has spread, Canin threw his arms out expansively, inviting appreciation from his audience of bodyguards.

Mark had never met Canin before in person, and now he added to his impressions of the man who'd once saved his life but who had also ordered his execution. Luck had placed Canin in charge of the large crime organisation on the demise of the Ganzas, yet he had capitalised on his fortuitous rise to consolidate his power to a remarkable degree. This wasn't a man to be underestimated. He'd shown himself to be ruthless and highly intelligent.

Confronted finally by his adversary, Mark's slow burn of anger turned scalding, and he longed to turn loose the words of scathing venom that filled his heart. Not only his son but also his father had been a cop, and his admiration for their courageous and selfless service was boundless. Just one dirty cop besmirched the reputation of the whole force, making it harder for such honourable men as his son to do their jobs. Yet Mark's role was to play for time, and insulting his host would not serve that end.

He longed, with a deep visceral craving, to see Steve, but his son's presence would likely precipitate events best postponed so, for now, Mark decided not to demand to see Steve but to play to the man's weakness and pander obliquely to his vanity.

Trying to assume a more defeated demeanor than he actually felt, he asked humbly, Did you have to kill the cop in the hospital? We're already in so deep with the LAPD that they've probably issued a shoot-on-sight order.

Canin's smile slid wider, although he didn't cease chewing his gum. I'm a careful man, Dr. Sloan. I believe in taking precautions. You should appreciate that. You have a reputation for being meticulous with details yourself.

Canin gave an exaggerated shiver. We should be shaking in our shoes. You've single-handedly filled jails with all the criminals you've caught. Again, he cast his eyes around to make sure his henchmen appreciated his humour. They gave dutiful smiles, but clearly didn't regard the elderly man, oddly attired mostly in pajamas, as a threat.

Mark lifted one shoulder in a shrug. You've got my son. I would never do anything to endanger his life.

Canin picked up on the sincerity behind the words, but not the obvious corollary underneath that Mark wouldn't risk his son by attempting a solitary rescue. Canin waggled his finger at Mark reprovingly. You can't afford an Achilles Heel in this business, and speaking of business, Dr. Sloan, he leaned forward intently, where's my notebook?

The cat had finished playing with the mouse and was now ready to strike.

If I'd had it on me when arrested, Mark replied evenly, the police would now have it. He smiled disarmingly. Besides, I'd like more than your simple assurance that we'll be allowed to go free.

Canin's piercing eyes passed through wintry on their way to frigid. You disappoint me, Dr. Sloan. I thought we had an understanding.We do. I'm just making sure you don't renege on your part of the deal, Mark reassured him.

Get the cop in here, Canin ordered in arctic tones.

Mark watched as the two thugs left the room, and his right hand grasped the crutch so tightly his knuckles gleamed white.

Dr. Sloan.

Mark's attention swung back to Canin as, with a chilling smile of anticipation at odds with his words, he said. I've forgotten my manners. Please, take a seat on the couch. Would you like a drink?

Mark shook his head, refusing the offer of liquor but sinking gratefully into a nearby couch, needing the support it offered. Canin ignored his refusal, handing him a glass of expensive brandy.

The air felt curiously thick, heavy with an impending storm, charged so that the slightest spark of provocation would set off an explosive conflagration, and Mark's skin crackled with anticipation. In the end, it was no spark but a jagged bolt of lightening in the form of a solitary shot that obliterated the oppressive tension, replacing it with a sharp flash of fear. Mark rose abruptly to his feet as if yanked up by strings from above, knowing instinctively that his son was in the middle of this altercation and terrified that the situation had unraveled before help was at hand.

Canin glared towards the door in a mixture of fury and suspicion. Pulling his gun out of its holster, he grabbed Mark with his free hand. Let's go find out what's happening, he growled.

It was unnecessary for Canin to pull Mark as viciously as he did since Mark was just as eager as he was to discover what was happening, but was impeded again by the cast. It was clear from the shouting and footsteps that they were not the only ones converging on the sound of the shots.

Mark was dragged into a well-stocked kitchen, the domestic smell of spaghetti sauce clashing with the chilling sight that met his eyes. Assorted weaponry in a multitude of hands directed his attention to Steve, the target of all sights, who lay, barely visible, in the shelter of a dark doorway. Luckily, Canin's men had been disciplined enough to hold their fire until their boss had arrived, so a blood bath had so far been avoided.

With an appalled, wordless sound of protest at the sheer magnitude of firepower aimed at Steve, Mark took an involuntary step forward, instinctively trying to place himself between his son and the lethal threat. He was jerked backwards, a restraining arm wrapped firmly around his neck. With a sense of disbelief he realised that, for the second time in almost as many days, he would be used as a hostage to force his son's compliance.

For a moment, he contemplated using casts or crutch as a weapon, but he realised that resistance wouldn't serve them. He was sure Steve didn't have a spare gun this time, and the forces against them were overwhelming. However, there did exist the faint hope of eventual rescue.

Canin frog marched Mark into the centre of the room, using him as a shield.

Let him go, Canin. Mark could hear equal parts fear and exhaustion mixed in with the fury in his son's voice.

Whatcha going to do Sloan? Canin taunted him. Are you going to play this one by the book? He referred to the official departmental policy not to surrender a weapon in such a hostage situation. Or do you think your hand's steady enough to take me out without hitting your father. Go for it! He actually sounded amused at the situation.

If you hurt him, you'll never get the notebook, Steve warned, playing his last card.

But your father's not going to be much use with a hole in him, Canin countered.

Please, Steve. Mark hoped that, to the others, his plea would sound like that of a terrified man, but that his son would know him well enough to read the sub-text. He couldn't see Steve's eyes in the dark, but tried to convey with his own the message that this was not the end play.

Don't hurt him. Surrender was heavy in his son's voice and the gun slid across the floor. The two nearest men jumped into the doorway to seize him, pulling him brutally to his feet. As Canin's hold loosened, Mark shook off his grasp, moving forward, eager to get to his son, but his steps slackened as he got his first clear look at him. Where it wasn't marred by bruises, Steve's skin was bleached to a shade of translucent chalk that contrasted sharply with the two-day growth of beard and the dark smudges under his eyes. His clothes were stiff with dried blood, and some darker areas indicated more recent bleeding. Mark felt his throat tighten with helpless empathy and his stomach heave, fighting down outraged nausea for his son's suffering.

Steve's face was controlled but as he met his father's eyes, he was unable to shutter the windows to his soul, and Mark could read a love so fierce it hurt, coupled with a haunting desperation that he could no longer protect his father.

Although he wasn't feeling too steady himself, Mark pushed one of the thugs supporting Steve out of the way, replacing him as a prop, needing to help his son. He could feel the heat radiating off Steve and the constant tremors that shook his frame as he struggled to keep his feet. They were both at the end of their endurance, but in grim accord they faced Canin in united defiance.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21  
  
"What happened to Lenny and Tom?" Canin asked, without much interest.

A quick investigation turned up both the men he'd sent to fetch Steve at the bottom of the basement stairs, one shot and the other with a broken neck from the fall down the steps.

Despite the loss of his two men, Canin seemed more amused than anything about the whole incident, perhaps because the sheer desperation behind Steve's attempt was reassuring to his suspicious mind.

"Why don't we return to more comfortable surroundings and discuss this like gentlemen," he suggested amiably, but with an implacable core of steel.

Mark assisted Steve as best he could, but after watching their laboured progress impatiently, the gunman Mark had replaced stepped in, clearly meaning to drag Steve at a far less leisurely pace than the one Mark was maintaining.

Mark fended him off. "Leave him alone."

With the obvious intention of reminding Mark that he was a prisoner and in no position to give orders, the man raised his fist, but before the blow could land, Steve had slipped his arm from around Mark's shoulders and followed through with a credible left hook, though he measured his length alongside that of the thug after it had landed.

Mark was instantly kneeling beside him, blocking the attempt at reprisals from the furious and embarrassed gunman. Fortunately, he was aided in this by Canin. "Malloy! These are our guests. Let us treat them as such." He still appeared highly entertained, relieved that he wasn't the only one who'd come to grief at Steve's hands.

"Now you decide to take objection to people hitting me," Mark teased his son, the humour hiding the depths of concern he felt at the heat radiating from Steve's feverish body. He was rewarded with a faint smile.

Their progress to the other room was halting, but Canin was in no rush and cracked jokes with his men as he waited in the lounge for his prisoners' arrival.

Mark lowered Steve onto the couch and sat down abruptly beside him. The trembling was more pronounced, but he was surprised Steve was even conscious, and he pressed his shoulder firmly against his son's, offering both concrete and moral support.

Canin was happy to play the gracious host, believing he held both his adversaries at his mercy and reveling in the exercise of his power. Mark ignored his jibes and triumphant taunting, splitting his attention between monitoring his precariously unsteady son and listening hopefully for sounds of imminent rescue. The silence from outside was starting to worry him, and he prayed that nothing had gone wrong with his plan. He knew the considerable security around the building would probably prove a difficult obstacle and cost them the element of surprise.

Mark's attention was brought back to Canin as he caught the word 'notebook'. Before he could respond, his son's hoarse voice cut in firmly.

"I hid it. If you want it, you're going to have to deal with me."

This was news to Mark, who could feel the warmth of the paper snugly against his skin under the leg cast, but he tried to school his expression not to betray his surprise, although he felt considerable unease in backing his son's play. He knew Steve was attempting to distract Canin's attention from him, and he contemplated launching his own counterclaim as to who was responsible for the location of Latiere's 'insurance', but feared that such a diversion would only result in physical retribution that his son might not survive.

Steve was breathing in shallow, panting breaths, and although he sounded coolly confident, it was clear he was at the end of his endurance. With a surreal sense of shock, Mark noticed that his son, while in the guise of cradling his injured arm in his other hand, was squeezing his left thumb against an embedded splinter. A fresh trickle of blood ran down his arm, and pride battled with anguish in Mark's heart as he realised that his son was using the pain as an aid to maintain consciousness, employing the only bargaining tool he had to ensure his father's safety, an impossible task if he passed out.

Canin's certainty faltered for a moment, and he scowled at Mark accusingly. "Your father said _he_ had it."

"He was lying to protect me," Steve bluffed smoothly, but his teeth were clenched hard enough to make his jaw muscles quiver. "I'll take you to it, but my father goes free first."

Canin regarded him for a long moment, chewing his gum thoughtfully, then shrugged easily. "I've got no reason to kill you. Your father will tell you that I've made sure you'll never have a place on the force again. Give me the notebook and I'll call it even."

Mark let his hand rest on his son's arm, feeling the skin dry and hot against his palm, trying to convey purely by touch the complex warning not to trust Canin, but also not to push the issue.

"Then we'll both be happy," Steve rasped out sardonically.

"Then if you'll just..." Canin broke off as the popping echo of semi-automatic fire reached them, a sound innocuous in volume yet ominous in portent. An alarm blared gratingly outside the room, and Canin strode to his desk to pick up the phone, glaring suspiciously at the Sloans as he did so.

The voice on the other end was unintelligible but the panicked tone it contained was unmistakable, and Canin slammed the receiver down with a savage imprecation. Black fury filled his face as, with jerky, convulsive motions, he spun back from the desk.

"The cops! You brought them here, you son-of-a bitch!" This tirade was aimed at Mark, and the doctor could feel his son tense beside him but, at a signal from Canin, Steve was seized by two large bodyguards, his arms immobilised behind him.

The cavalry had arrived, but would Canin allow them to survive long enough to greet their liberators? Mark had hoped when devising his strategy that, faced with overwhelming forces, Canin would surrender to the inevitable, but, seeing the uncontrolled rage engendered as much at the humiliation of being bested as the ruination of his grandiose plans, he now had his doubts.

Gunshots spat closer to the house, and the shouting of commands grew more clearly distinguishable. For a moment, Canin stood irresolute, anger an opaque cloud around him through which it was impossible to reason clearly. Then, as a megaphone-enhanced voice from outside the house demanded surrender, vindictiveness won out.

Recognising that his downfall was imminent and placing the blame squarely on Mark's shoulders, he strode forward, seizing Mark by the jacket and jerking him to his feet, ignoring Steve's warning cry of "Canin, don't!" But Canin had nothing so crude as a blow in mind for his revenge.

"Kill the cop, now!" With savage satisfaction, he watched the impact of his words as alarm in the blue eyes inches from his own deepened into agonised panic and an automatic plea and horrified denial was wrenched from Mark's throat.

"NO!"

There was no mercy in the vindictive pale eyes, and desperation broke the paralysis that momentarily gripped Mark's limbs. His medical training allowed him to act with deliberation despite his terror. He reached behind him, finding the glass of malt whiskey Canin had pressed on him earlier, and flung it, container and all, at the taunting face. With a howl of pain and rage, Canin turned away, swiping at the burning liquid in his eyes. Mark followed up his advantage, grabbing his crutch and swinging it. He landed one punishing blow, then turned to attack the two men holding Steve, braving the guns with only a glorified stick in order to protect his son. Steve's struggles had kept them too occupied to interfere so far, but the odds were not promising, and their attempts at defense were almost certainly doomed.

However, at that moment, the lights went out as the electricity was cut to the building. Almost simultaneously, there was a crash as something broke through the window behind him. Mark wasn't expecting the assault on his senses that followed, an overwhelming explosion of light and sound that left him temporarily blinded and deafened and thus oblivious both to Steve's warning shout, "Get down, Dad," and the next shattering of glass that heralded the arrival of a tear-gas canister.

Steve was familiar with SWAT tactics and knew the softening weapons that presaged an assault. He could quote the 175 decibel output of the flashbang grenade and its 2.5 million candela yield, although it was the first time he'd experienced its effects firsthand, but he was familiar with the effects of the tear-gas he knew would follow, and buried his face in the plush carpet, covering his head with his good arm for further protection.

Mark had no warning and could not even see the gas pouring out and engulfing them in a stinging, blinding cloud. The effect was immediate and horrendous. His eyes began to tear and burn, his nose and throat felt raw, and within seconds, tears began running down his face, his breathing coming in ever- smaller gasps.

Mark had never been exposed to tear gas before, and the physical shock was enormous. However, he'd treated people in the emergency room who'd been exposed and knew that, in theory, the effects were only temporary. From the twirling mayhem in his mind he tried to recall the details. Both tear gas and pepper spray are skin irritants, causing burning pain and excess drainage from eyes, nose, mouth and breathing passages. The cold textbook facts bore little resemblance to the agony of the reality. It felt as if two red-hot pieces of steel were grinding into his eyes, as if someone was blowing a fiery cutting torch into his face. He staggered forward a few steps before falling to the ground, starting to rub his eyes even though he knew it was better not to. The heat from the pepper spray was overwhelming, and he couldn't resist trying to rub it off his face.

The worst effects of the flashbang grenade were starting to wear off, and he became aware of shadows moving blurrily in his vision and muffled screams and shouts clashing with eerily quiet shots. He crawled forward groping hopefully with his hands, trying to make sense of shapes with streaming eyes, desperate to find his son, horrified by the thought of the effect of the tear gas on his son's open wounds.

The room was neither dark not light but a disorienting mixture of both as pitch blackness alternated with vivid flashes of orange light as weapons were discharged. The gas was a fog through which people moved in slow, strange dances of shock and pain and resistance.

Something stuck him a sharp blow on the head, and even through his increasing disorientation he realised that he'd been hit by another tear-gas canister lobbed through the window. He could feel blood trickling down his scalp, oddly cool against the burning of the tear gas. He knelt upright, swaying dizzily, feeling horribly exposed, but he'd lost his bearings in the chaos and needed to know in which direction to move to find Steve. He could identify nothing around him and had to force down the panic that grew as he struggled for breath, the feeling of slow asphyxiation terrifying. Suddenly, through an oddly, quiescent clear patch of air he saw Canin, or at least his disembodied head, floating through the mist.

His pale eyes were red-rimmed and streaming, giving his appearance a maniacal fury that held Mark hypnotised even as the gun appeared beside the seemingly incorporeal head. Mark knew he was going to die, although the nightmarish atmosphere touched that knowledge with unreality.

He was conscious only of a deep sadness and a final prayer that his son had escaped the slaughter. As if summoned by the thought, a shadow detached itself from the swirling mist, like a vengeful demon rising from the sulfurous depths of hell. It bore Canin backwards, and they both disappeared into the voracious vapor, which swallowed them up so totally they might have been figments of Mark's imagination. However, in that brief second he had recognised the form as his son, and his straining ears heard the sound of a gun retort from the direction he'd disappeared.

"NO!" The scream of anguish was louder in his heart than in his ears, and his universe narrowed down to the few feet separating him from his worse nightmare.

He crawled forward again, blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, unsure how much of the obscurity was the effect of the tear gas and the grenade and how much was the natural darkness.

His hand discovered his son just before a flash of light revealed him, and Mark's heart literally stopped for a moment, then restarted with a fury that left him lightheaded. Steve was in shock, twitching and shivering uncontrollably from being tear-gassed then shot at close range. His burned eyes were tightly closed, and he was panting irregularly, a dark patch spreading rapidly across his chest.

Trying to control the tremor in his hands, Mark eased him to one side, checking for an exit wound more by feel than by sight. The bullet had exited high up, indicating the angle of entry, and Mark tried to visualise the path it must have torn through his son's body. Automatically, he stemmed the blood flow as best he could, too shaken for lucid thought.

He murmured reassurances that neither of them could hear, impatiently wiping away the discharge that still ran from his eyes and nose. His focus was so all-encompassing that he had entirely forgotten Canin. This lapse was sharply rectified as he was brutally yanked to his feet. In dazed resistance, he tried he pull his arm free, uncomprehendingly watching the sharp movements of Canin's mouth, the excess saliva produced by the tear gas spat towards him in emphatic punctuation. The words may have been lost on Mark, but the message conveyed by the gesticulations of his weapon towards Steve were only too clear. Canin was more than willing to finish what he'd started and administer the coup de grace to Steve if Mark did not comply with his wishes. Every fibre of his being ached with reluctance to leave his injured son, each step he retreated from his prone body was a mental rending as painful as the ripping of flesh from bone. His relief at sparing Steve the brutality of Canin's further attentions was easily eclipsed by the knowledge that his son could bleed to death without his assistance.

He didn't believe that Canin would get very far, and he was correct in that assumption. They hadn't cleared the doorway before the lights came back on. The fierce illumination after the general darkness initially exacerbated the watering of Mark's vision, but his eyes darted round the chaotic scene.The room now seemed as filled with smoke as tear gas; fires were burning, bodies littered the room and, menacing them from a dozen places were as many weapons in the hands of hideously masked SWAT agents, but the only thing that mattered to Mark was that, in the midst of it all, Steve was lying vulnerable and alone, silent and still.

Canin was cornered, his men disarmed or dead, but his natural pragmatism was extinguished by the awareness of how he would fare at the hands of his ex-colleagues and as a dirty cop in prison, and he faced his captors defiantly, holding Mark close as a shield, his gun barrel jammed into the soft flesh under his captive's chin. Mark made no demur; his limbs were heavy and every jarring movement reverberated up his spine, causing his brain to rattle around his aching skull like a sonorous clapper in a bell.

"It doesn't have to end this way. No one else needs to die." Mark attempted to defuse the situation without further bloodshed, although he suspected his efforts were futile, his reasonable words falling literally on deaf ears if Canin had been as affected as himself by the flashbang grenade.

The macabre waltz continued with Canin advancing a few steps and the SWAT team melting back then reforming around him in a menacing circle. Mark ached to speed up the proceedings to ensure Steve got the help he so urgently needed, but realised that haste would precipitate a tragic conclusion.

Canin's increasing desperation communicated itself to Mark through the quivering tautness of the muscles holding him, and the slickness of the skin. The rank odor of fear permeated the air they both breathed, and Mark could almost feel the frantic pounding of his captor's pulse running a turbulent counterpoint to his own. Canin had successfully negotiated their exit from the room, and Mark's most immediate anxiety for Steve's welfare ceased with his son out of range, though his hopes for his own survival dimmed.

The circle tightened almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to snap Canin's fragile control. Mark couldn't repress a wince as the barrel of the gun was jammed repeatedly into already bruised flesh as a furious accompaniment to the shouting in his ears.

Even Mark's dulled hearing could pick up the frenzied threats to blow his head off if the team didn't give Canin immediate passage, but he refused to resign himself to imminent death, waiting for the gun to waver sufficiently to make a move. The SWAT team faded back as if choreographed, but remained implacably focused. The standoff may have continued indefinitely if not for a dramatic development.

One of the men pulled off the gas mask, revealing the stern features of Chief Masters who attracted Canin's attention with a stentorian bellow. Mark never knew whether Masters' intention was to reason with his former employee or whether he merely intended to offer a distraction. If it was the latter, he must have exceeded beyond his wildest expectations. The history between the two men was complex, with feelings of trust betrayed on both sides. Recognition and reaction were instantaneous, bypassing self-preservation. Two shots rang and Mark was aware of the Chief staggering back despite his attempt at grappling with Canin's gun arm. He felt rather than heard the bullet that hit Canin, a jerk succeeded by a convulsive constriction of muscles tightening in a final spasm of surprise and disbelief, then the body fell limply to the floor. Mark didn't turn, dazed by the abruptness of the resolution and watching Masters regain his footing, with the belated realisation that the Chief was wearing a bullet-proof vest. It was easy to overlook in the middle of a crisis.

Mark knew that a vest only stopped the penetration not the force of a bullet, but Masters showed no sign of the deep bruising he must have experienced as he approached.

"Dr. Sloan." He put a steadying hand on the older man's shoulder, taking in the blood matting his hair and his shocky white complexion. "How badly are you hurt?"

The question didn't even register with Mark. "Steve?" he asked shakily.

"He's being attended to," Masters answered somewhat evasively.

"I need to see him," Mark insisted, attempting to shrug off Masters' hand, eyes fastened in the direction of the room containing his son and his feet unsteadily moving forward.

"I'll go with you." The Chief's words were decisive, yet there was a hesitancy in his steps and Mark looked up, impatient at the delay. For a split second he caught an unguarded emotion on that usually impassive face - sorrow and remorse as Masters gazed on the body of his former officer, then it was gone. Mark, however, remembering the suffering inflicted on his son by Canin spared him neither time nor regret and left without a backwards glance.

His panic intensified at the discovery that the room next door was empty, but Masters guided him outside and he got a brief glimpse of Steve being loaded into an ambulance. His eye was caught by the profusion and intensity of blood staining his son's upper chest, the waxy, gray skin of his face stretched tightly over prominent bones just visible under a resuscitation mask.

"Oh, God," he breathed numbly, his mind grappling with the concept that, after all they'd been through, he could still lose his son. In that brief, faltering moment of hesitation, the doors of the ambulance closed and it moved off. Mark took a few hobbling steps after it, then watched hopelessly as the vehicle moved down the drive, through the gates and out of his sight.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The Chief escorted Mark to another ambulance, giving instructions to the personnel that Mark didn't struggle to hear. On the way to the hospital, they flushed his eyes with liquid antacid and placed a temporary dressing on his head wound. Mark accepted their ministrations numbly, his mind trapped in one all-consuming loop. If Steve were torn out of his life, his loss would leave a gaping wound that would be impossible to heal.

The emergency room night staff at the hospital were familiar, but nobody he would consider an intimate friend. Passively, he allowed them to stitch his head, but when they tried to admit him, he refused, signing the AMA forms and summoning enough cogent arguments to alleviate their concerns.

He asked no one about Steve, knowing that any news at that time would be the worst. As long as Steve was alive, the doctors would still be working on him. Mark only made it as far as a waiting room before his legs were shaking too hard to support him and he sank down, the familiar but alien environment distancing him from his emotions.

It was aptly named, 'waiting area'. The furniture was worn and too uncomfortable to encourage a lengthy stay. The stained surfaces of coffee tables were littered with old magazines and crumpled and half-filled disposable coffee cups. Mindless Muzac droned softly from somewhere overhead, drowned out occasionally by an announcement. Yet despite the late hour, the lighting was harsh, even garish, revealing mercilessly the pallor and stark shadows of fear that lined the faces of its few occupants.

He felt as fragile as glass, that the smallest touch would shatter him, sending him falling into jagged fragments on the ground. His head injury and exhaustion were clouding his usual common sense, and he clung to the relative anonymity of the waiting room, eschewing the doctor's lounge with its greater likelihood of questions and sympathy.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall, finding it difficult to bring it into focus. Had it been that long a time? That short? He couldn't remember the last time he ate or slept. It was as if time itself were on hold, stopped short by impending...his mind shied away from completion of that thought.

Amanda's soft voice recalled him to his surroundings, and he looked into her concerned face as she knelt beside him.

Hi, honey, he replied naturally, as if sitting in the dingy waiting room were an every day occurrence.

I came as soon as I heard, she continued cautiously.

You didn't have to do that, Mark murmured automatically. The boys?My neighbour came over to baby-sit. They're fine. Amanda took a deep breath, anticipating the argument ahead. Mark, you're in no condition to be sitting here. You need to be lying down. Jesse's in with Steve. He'll bring news as soon as he can.It's okay, honey, I'm fine, Mark answered vaguely, unaware that his slurred speech was giving her an entirely different message.

She didn't try to argue with him but patted his knee. Wait here, she ordered unnecessarily, as Mark continued to stare at the space she vacated, not bothering to change his focus. He had no idea of the passage of time before she returned pushing a wheelchair. At her urging, he moved unsteadily into the wheelchair, but as she started to push him, a sudden flashback to the last time he'd used this mode of transportation produced a spurt of adrenaline that partly cleared his mind. He looked round in alarm until he caught sight of Amanda.

Where we going? he asked, confused.

I've arranged for a room for you, she reassured him. You've got a concussion and you need to be resting.

Mark wanted to protest, but his head was reeling and he couldn't quite frame the words he was looking for, so he subsided despondently.

The sight of the room, almost identical to the one in which he'd spend the previous day waiting, brought a wave of revulsion, but he allowed Amanda to sit him on the edge of the bed, the weight of the leg cast making it hard to swing up further.

Amanda tapped the cast. I'll take this off now if you want. It's served its purpose, hasn't it?

Mark nodded wearily. Yes. The Chief was able to trace the GPS signal from the transponder he gave Jesse to hide in there. It worked like a charm. The latter was said with an uncharacteristic edge of bitterness.

Amanda looked up, concern behind the enquiry in her gaze.

It was almost too much of an effort to form coherent sentences, but regret impelled the words, almost unconsciously. It was my plan that was far from perfect. I didn't factor in the possibility that Canin was beyond reason and would attempt to fight his way out of an unwinnable situation.

Practicality blended with compassion in Amanda's voice. Mark, no plan can be perfect. You had to get to Steve and you had to get to him quickly, and it worked. It was a brilliant plan. The Chief explained how you suggested one of the cops with you in each shift was chosen from the list of those on the take. The other was honest so Canin could get the information but they wouldn't be free to act.I miscalculated there too.The cop who was drugged is fine. The other... she shrugged, ...I won't shed any tears for him. He was willing to betray his oath and let you be taken and killed.

She could still see the doubt in his eyes and searched for the right words to alleviate his guilt. She decided to focus on the essentials. You've given Steve a fighting chance. If you hadn't taken action immediately, Canin would have killed him or he would have died of his injuries. This way he's got a real chance, thanks to you. Steve's strong, she stated optimistically, wanting to remove the bleak look in her friend's eyes. Given a chance, he'll pull through.

Mark didn't mention his long-held opinion that there were only so many times that even the strongest person could pull himself back from the brink of death, but he did share his most immediate fear. He had no reserves left. His voice was low and pained. He was exhausted.Do you remember when Steve was shot by Oz Tatum? Amanda asked carefully. The look of incredulity on Mark's face informed her that it wasn't an event that could slip from his memory.

Jesse and I...well, we didn't think he'd make it, she continued hastily. But you refused to give up on him. You were determined that he would make it and somehow I think you transferred that faith to him.

For a moment, all Mark could remember was the bitter sorrow of being dragged to jail while his son's fate was still in the balance, but he pushed that memory aside to allow the balm of Amanda's words to soothe his fears.

He took a deep breath before saying firmly, I'm not giving up on him now either. Thanks, honey.

She fluffed his pillows, ruthlessly forcing him back into them, then, in a quiet monotone, started updating him on recent events at the hospital in his absence.

Mark struggled to stay awake, but his body mutinied and took his will captive by the simple expedient of dragging it back into the darkness of unconsciousness.

It was some hours later that his subconscious recognised Jesse's voice in the whispered conversation in his room, and he woke up in a convulsive start, memories washing acidly back immediately.

Steve! Jesse?

He looked at Jesse with a set, rigid face, eyes bleak and pleading, suddenly terrified that the younger doctor had come to inform him that Steve was dead.

However, the tentative smile Jesse offered him augured well, and he relaxed a little. How bad, Jess?

Jesse sat down on the edge of the bed, picking his words carefully. "He made it through surgery without too many problems. What I'm most concerned about is sepsis. It's playing havoc with his blood pressure. I've sutured the wounds that I could, but too much time has elapsed to be able to do more than irrigate and bandage most of his injuries. We're also giving him IV fluids and medication to help support his blood pressure. He's on breathing treatments and oxygen. I haven't placed him on a ventilator yet, but it remains a possibility."

Mark nodded thoughtfully; it could have been much worse. I want to see him, Jess.I know you do, Jesse soothed. But at the moment, he's unconscious and you need to rest.I'm going now!

Mark turned the full power of his best glare of intimidation on his colleague -- an amazing feat considering he'd just woken up and was lying in bed -- and Jesse caved in the face of such determination. Lifting his hands in surrender, he nodded, "Okay, okay. I'll be right back."

They both accompanied him to Steve's room, Jesse pushing the wheelchair, but, after transferring him to a specially placed comfortable chair beside the bed, they left him alone, affording him the privacy he desired.

His initial trepidation was somewhat assuaged as he automatically read the machines surrounding his son. He knew that, thanks to the angle of entry, the last bullet had missed anything vital. None of Steve's injuries were, by themselves, life-threatening. It was the cumulative effect, and the fact that they had gone so long untreated, that led to his continued presence in the ICU. Once he was successfully stabilised, he could be moved to a regular room.

Now that he was actually with his son, Mark's most acute fears evaporated, leaving him imbued with a new sense of resolution. Steve was adrift on a perilous sea, but Mark would be his life preserver, keeping him afloat until he reached safer shores.

With an aching heart, he watched Steve sleep. Lines of pain that Mark didn't remember seeing before were evident on his son's face. He was still pale, although he had more colour than when he'd been loaded into the ambulance. There were still dark shadows beneath his son's eyes, which were emphasised by the dim light in the room, but hopefully rest and relaxation would erase them.

He took his son's hand firmly in his, a physical anchoring reinforcing the more tenuous link offered by his voice.

You're safe in hospital now, son and you're going to be fine. It was as much a command as a statement of faith, and he reinforced it with a gentle squeeze to the lax hand he was holding. For a minute there was silence, then he continued more conversationally.

You know, this was much easier when you were just having your tonsils out. Actually, he chuckled gently, I didn't handle that too well at the time either. It was the first time I experienced the real disadvantages of being a doctor, of knowing all the things that could go wrong -- not that they were likely to happen, but were still possibilities. I didn't want to worry your mom, but I think the pacing gave it away.

Memories tumbled into his mind, warring for dominance, scrambling to be remembered first. He talked about things he'd probably never have mentioned if he'd had a conscious audience for his words, but eventually his voice trailed off as, lulled by the comfortable support of the chair and reassured by the strengthening of his son's vital signs, he slipped back into sleep.

Hospital. Even in a drugged, semi-conscious state, Steve could catalog the sounds, smells and physical sensations that informed him of his present location -- the constant beep of the heart monitor in particular -- and he congratulated himself wryly on his detective skills.

Most importantly, he was aware of someone gripping his hand, and he smiled faintly, reassured. It was his father, he could tell without looking. Mark's presence was tangible even in silence. His Dad was okay. He knew that was important, though he couldn't remember why he was concerned.

He lazily examined his memory, skimming like a skipping stone over the placid surface of his mind until he impacted with a jarring thud against an obstacle labeled Canin and sank into turbulent images that brought him fully awake with a convulsive jerk.

The concern in the familiar voice nearby forced him to open his eyes, the lids feeling gummy and leaden.

His mouth was too dry for the words to issue audibly from his lips, but from the grin that split his father's face, he clearly understood.

I'll get you something to drink.

Mark could see his son's eyes tracking him as he moved around the room, as if afraid he was an apparition that would vanish if eye contact was lost. As he reseated himself, he told his son reassuringly. I'm not hurt, don't worry.

Steve's eyes pointed accusingly at the bandage decorating his head. he amended, a few scratches, nothing more, I promise.

He helped Steve take a few small sips through a straw, then seeing a slight wince, he asked, How are you feeling; are you in any pain?

Steve's voice was hoarse but audible. No pain, just lots of wavy lines and the room... He tried to lift an arm to demonstrate how the room was spinning, but it seemed too heavy to move.

Mark chuckled encouragingly. We're pumping more than a few drugs into you, so that isn't really surprising. You'll need some physio on your leg especially, but you're going to be okay.

The relief in Mark's face told Steve that the outcome had been in doubt at least in his father's mind, but he didn't press the issue. Sleep was pulling him inexorably down into its grasp again, so he decided to focus on the essentials.

Mark didn't look too distraught while imparting this information and, remembering the gun aimed at his father, Steve decided he wasn't either.

You still under arrest? Mark looked surprised. I have no idea. I haven't tried to leave this room for a while, so the issue hasn't come up. Hopefully the Chief has got that all cleared up. Anyway, don't worry about that now. Steve was reduced to monosyllables.

Mark was amused as his son's eyelids completed their gradual descent. Sleep is good.Not me, you. Steve's words were increasingly slurred as the drugs eased him back into the arms of Morpheus.

I'm fine. Mark swallowed down the lump that threatened to choke him.

Steve slid one eye half open, attempting to bring his father into focus to verify this claim, but it fell shut of its own volition.

Mark patted his son's hand consolingly as the younger man drifted back to sleep, then rose to his feet to inform Jesse that Steve had finally awoken. But, at the movement, a hand reached out to grasp his sleeve and pull him down again.

Don't go. The drugs had lowered Steve's normal defenses, revealing a vulnerability that took Mark back 40 years to the little boy having his tonsils removed. He had a feeling the appeal was motivated as much by Steve's innate protectiveness, a determination not to let his father out of his sight again, but the plaintive request brought a lump to his throat. A wave of love so powerful it nearly overwhelmed him surged through his heart as he stood gazing down at his son, noting that even nearly asleep, Steve's fingers remained entwined in his sleeve.

I'll be right here, he promised thickly. His eyes burned as the magnitude of his near loss filled his chest until he could scarcely breath, but relief sang joyously through every cell of his body. It had been too close yet again, but Steve's tenacity and amazing resilience had pulled him through.

As his son's fingers relaxed in sleep, Mark gently pulled free of the grip on his sleeve, renewing his own grasp on Steve's hand and settling back, the quiet bustle of the hospital at night soothing to his ears.


	23. Epilogue

Epilogue  
  
Mark pursed his lips in a silent whistle as he moved around the kitchen, preparing a meal to celebrate Steve's discharge from the hospital. While he worked, his son was sitting propped up on the sofa next to Jesse, and the two of them were watching a hackneyed science-fiction movie, making rude comments as it progressed. Amanda was attending a parent-teacher conference but would be joining them shortly.

Mark's joy at Steve's return home was muted by the confirmation that he'd recently received of Elise's murder. Obviously judged too great a threat as her husband's probable confident, she had been killed as she returned home after their dinner. Mark mourned her death, but remembered with gratitude and pleasure the time they'd spent together. However, nothing could entirely dim his relief at Steve's recovery.

After cooking and carrying for Mark while his foot had been injured during their stay at Dr. Hart's house, Steve was now thoroughly enjoying the role reversal. Still not allowed to bear much weight on his leg, he held court, ordering his friends to fetch and carry with fiendish glee, perhaps realising also that Mark needed to feel useful.

Mark listened in amusement to the amiable bickering coming from the other room.

"You're wrong, the shape-shifter took the form of the jelly creature to illustrate his psychological vulnerability."

"No, no, no, it was a ploy, pure and simple, -- camouflage so he could destroy the fur creatures."

"What sort of detective are you? It was an accident. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's the tragedy of the movie."

"Premeditated homicide! I'd have him on method, motive and opportunity."

"I thought you'd have more compassion for those framed and on the run."

"I was innocent!"

Amanda arrived at this point, and Mark was glad he couldn't hear the conversation deteriorate further. They chatted quietly as she helped him prepare a salad that was the one healthy component in a meal of meatloaf and baked potatoes slathered in butter and sour cream at Steve's request. They served the food onto plates and carried it through on trays.

Amanda looked with disfavour at the movie still showing on the television.

"If we're eating in here, that has to go off," she insisted.

There was a chorus of protests from the two men. "It's a classic," Jesse exclaimed.

"Classic junk!" Amanda returned firmly. She held out her hand. "Give me the remote."

Steve instinctively buried the remote control between the cushions behind him, out of her easy reach.

After frowning at him for a moment, she marched over to the set and turned if off manually, but as she turned in triumph, the TV clicked back on behind her.

Amanda had to struggle to keep a straight face, but parental experience prevented her mouth from twitching, and she successfully presented Steve with her most quelling glare before turning back and again switching off the set. She missed the sight of the remote coasting through the air in an abrupt change of ownership, so when the screen switched back on and she spun round accusingly, Steve held up two empty hands with an expression of cherubic innocence.

She quickly switched her focus to his partner in crime, but the evidence had already disappeared, and Jesse's face held even more limpid virtue. Amanda lifted one eyebrow in recognition of the challenge before swiftly yanking out the plug and waving the end gently in front of the now blank screen.

Mark started laughing at the byplay, a deep, relaxed chuckle. Amanda winked at Steve, and his mouth creased in acknowledgement as they both enjoyed the sound that had been missing for too long.

"Here's your consolation prize." Amanda handed out the trays, noting that Jesse's enthusiasm was not as marked as Steve's. Jesse turned to his friend, a gleam in his eye as he watched Steve struggle one-handedly with his meal.

"Do you want me to feed you?" he asked innocently.

"Only if you want to lose a hand," Steve replied pleasantly, without looking up.

Jesse snatched back the proffered limb in mock alarm, and soon there was only silence as they all enjoyed the meal and the company.

Afterwards, Amanda was regaling them with a poem CJ had written that his peers had thoroughly enjoyed but had been received with less appreciation by the administration of his school, when the doorbell rang. It was Chief Masters and, for a dizzying moment, Mark's heart stuttered as a vivid image of his previous visit flashed cruelly in his mind, a nightmare brought to life that would never be forgotten. There was a formal reserve quite unlike his usual hospitable manner as he invited the Chief in.

Mark had never specialised in psychology, but he possessed a keen insight into the intricacies of the human mind, its motivations and capacity for self-delusion. Yet, Masters remained something of an enigma even to him. Mark didn't doubt the Chief's courage and competence, merely his priorities. He and Steve almost certainly owed Masters their lives. He had helped them, to the detriment of his own safety, escape from the hotel room and had later come to their assistance on the roof, and Mark was deeply grateful for his ready acquiescence and capable follow-through to his rescue plan. The Chief's evident grief over Canin's death had banished the unworthy suspicion that he had engineered the man's demise to rid himself of a potential political embarrassment, but Mark still found himself unable to accord full trust to the Chief; maybe his ambitions and the power of his position precluded such confidence.

Yet Mark noticed, with a mixture of frustration and amusement, that Steve didn't seem to entertain the same reservations, greeting his superior with his customary respect. In some esoteric police system of weighing such things, all debts and accountability between the two had been paid off. Mark's jaw tightened imperceptibly; he still felt there was a reckoning to be paid for the Chief's actions on the roof, though it was more likely he would collect from the instigator of the proceedings - his son.

Somewhat maliciously, Mark offered the Chief a helping of meatloaf. Four faces regarded Masters expectantly, but, with a polite inclination of his head, he rejected the offer.

"Thank you, I recently ate."

Four pairs of eyes searched his impeccable attire for verification, any crumb or minute stain that might substantiate his claim, but in vain.

A ghost of a smile seemed to cross the man's face at the intent scrutiny before he got down to business. "Detective Archer sends her best."

Steve's eyes brightened at this reminder that his friend and colleague had not only survived, but was expected to recover completely from her injuries. He'd seen her briefly in the hospital, but she'd been asleep during his visit.

Mark chimed in. "I saw in the papers that there had been a successful series of arrests at the docks and a large shipment of drugs impounded."

"Latiere's final revenge from the grave," Masters confirmed.

"What of the ...er ...other information garnered from the notebook?" Mark put it as delicately as he could.

The Chief's lips tightened, clearly unhappy discussing the ring of corruption within his department with civilians.

"We had proof for only a few arrests, but several officers have resigned recently, encouraged by the suggestion of a personal IRS audit."

Steve nodded grimly, the delicate whiff of cover-up unpalatable to his nostrils, but loyalty to the LAPD advocating tolerance.

Mark had several more unanswered questions ready for presentation, but Masters beat him to the punch, asking, with his eyebrows tilted in polite enquiry, "Dr. Sloan, would you and the other good doctors mind if I talked to your son alone for a minute?"

Mark met his eyes challengingly, indicating tacitly that he did mind the exclusion, but innate good manners brought him to his feet. "Jesse, Amanda?" They cleared up the plates, taking them into the kitchen.

Masters watched them go expressionlessly, then turned back to meet the wry eyes of his officer -- an expression that seemed to indicate that privacy was more an illusion than fact.

"It's good to see you looking better, Lieutenant," he commented.

"Thank you, sir. I'm looking forward to getting back to work. There's only so long I can lie here decorating a sofa before even a desk starts to look good."

"Well, as to that," Masters cast a sardonic look towards the kitchen and raised his voice slightly, "I will have to leave the date for your return to work in the capable hands of your doctor." He didn't miss the grimace from Steve. "Nevertheless, when you do return to work, I presume you wish to return to Homicide?"

Steve attempted to keep his expression neutral. "Yes, Sir. Will there be a new Task Force, Sir?"

Masters regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment, and when he replied, Steve thought at first that he'd changed the subject. "Ross Canin was buried last week. There was also a memorial service for Detective Bobby Ross who died in the line of duty." He looked straight at Steve and, for a moment, Steve could almost see the weight of responsibility bearing down on his superior. "I know you believe I pushed him over the line, but undercover work is a legitimate tool and has long been used by the department."

"Actually, Sir. I don't know if he was pushed, slid or jumped over with both feet, but the truth is he stomped on the line and obliterated it and that was nobody's choice but his own."

"Ah," Masters nodded pensively, but made no further comment although Steve thought that the invisible burden of command had eased somewhat. The Chief stood up smoothly.

"Lieutenant, I will see you back at work when you've been cleared for such an appearance. I'll see myself out. I don't think your father has forgiven me for the... incident on the roof."

Steve smiled wryly. "Actually, I think I'll be the one who pays for that. Thank you for coming, Sir."

"Then I'll wish you good luck." With a final nod, Masters started to leave, turning back at the last minute to add. "I'm sorry to hear about the death of Elise Latiere. Please pass my condolences along to your father."

At the sound of the front door closing, Mark appeared, dish rag in hand. "That was a quick visit," he observed. "Well, it's getting late, Jesse and Amanda are getting ready to go."

Steve said goodbye to his friends, but as Mark showed them to the door, he eased back on the sofa feeling unaccountably depressed. His leg ached, his arm itched, but it was the fate of Bobby Ross and Elise Latiere and a corresponding sense of failure that hung heavily on his mind.

He was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice Mark's return, and his father stood watching him for several moments, a crease of concern marring his forehead as he caught the weariness and despondency on his son's face.

Picking up some supplies in the kitchen, he returned to Steve's side. The younger Sloan pasted on a smile for his benefit that didn't fool his father at all, and fended off Mark's hand as the doctor attempted to assess his son's temperature.

"How're you feeling?" Mark asked, checking up as much on Steve's emotional wellbeing as his state of health. However, picking up on his son's response before it was made, he stuck a thermometer into Steve's mouth, cutting off his answer, not wanting to listen to his son spout the customary 'I'm fine' when he obviously wasn't.

"You're not fine," he informed him tartly. "Whenever you say that, it means that you are so not fine that you're probably on the verge of collapse."

"Then what do I say when I really am fine?" Steve asked dryly.

Mark's eyes twinkled. "I've never yet asked you the question when you really are fine."

"Maybe you should, you could use the practice." Steve's inchoate smile tapered off as he changed the subject.

"Dad, the Chief told me about Elise Latiere. I'm so sorry."

The playful teasing was wiped abruptly from Mark's countenance to be replaced with an undecipherable expression, but the light that usually sparkled in his eyes was dimmed, and Steve could sense the muted sorrow that he surprised on his father's face several times during the last few days when Mark had thought himself unobserved.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he blurted out as he realised that Mark had known for some time, then kicked himself as he felt his father withdraw slightly at the question.

Mark was an intensely private individual, not given to sharing his pain, yet over the years, Steve had learnt how to infiltrate his defenses, sliding past his reserve with stealth, approaching the problem obliquely. That question had all the subtlety of a bull elephant in heat.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, a self-conscious gesture Steve rarely saw his father use. "I suppose," he confessed reluctantly, "that I wasn't sure if I was ready for this conversation."

Steve straightened up, shuffling over on the couch in silent invitation for his father to sit next to him. Almost absently, Mark obliged. "Actually, it's more in the nature of an apology than a conversation."

By this time, Steve was itching with a curiosity that wasn't immediately gratified as Mark didn't immediately continue, but sat staring blindly at the back of the sofa as if lost in memories.

Casually, Steve moved one hand to his father's knee, trying to encourage without pressure. Mark looked up, his eyes bright with an emotion Steve didn't recognise.

"When your mother died," he began slowly. "I wasn't there for you or your sister. I was too lost in my own grief to help you with yours."

Steve tried to conceal the shock he was experiencing, and a frisson of alarm tickled his spine. This was a topic they had never really broached, and he was at a loss for its introduction now. He bit back the instinctive 'I don't understand' that rose to his lips and tried to look encouraging, ignoring the instinct to avoid the conversation in favor of concentrating on his father's needs. Anyone else might have believed that Steve had kept a poker face throughout this exchange, but Mark effortlessly followed the muted emotions in those eyes as blue and fathomless as a mountain lake. Bemusement and wariness he'd expected, but he was touched by Steve's obvious willingness to follow his lead. He took a deep breath. The subject was now uncovered and lay exposed and raw between them, and he had to take it to its conclusion.

"I met Elise a few months after your mother died." Although Steve didn't move, Mark could feel the increase in tension in his son and hurried on. "I missed your mother so much. It was a relief to have someone I could talk to about her. Someone who didn't know her...or me, before. She was willing to listen. She was very unhappy herself, her marriage was...difficult. I think it was that shared loneliness that brought us together."

Steve dropped his eyes, overwhelmed by too much information to process and suddenly finding himself neck deep in the murky emotional waters in which he usually avoided so much as paddling. Long buried feelings of desolation resurfaced.

"Steve," his father's voice broke through his absorption as if reading his mind. "It wasn't an affair. We never... you know. It was just two lonely people finding comfort in such mundane activities as talking and playing tennis."

Steve nodded, accepting his father's words with relief. His own inadvertent and unintentional affair with a married woman was fresh in his mind and left him in no doubts as to where he stood on that issue. He was sure he had inherited those values from his father so had no difficulty believing him.

He looked up again into Mark's anxious face, understanding how difficult it must be for him to have introduced this topic. He bit back the instinctive reassurance of absolution, knowing that his father deserved more than facile words of forgiveness.

Mark was the rock of his life, although predictable only in how amazing he could be. Steve depended on his father's courage, compassion and irreverence. It was easy to forget that beneath the genial surface there was a complex and fallible man.

For a moment, superimposed on those beloved features he knew better than his own, he saw his father as a younger man, with hair not yet as distinguished a white and lacking the jaunty mustache. Mark had been more serious back then and, even through the filter of his own preoccupation during that time, Steve could remember the pain and loss that bled into his father's expression after the death of his wife. He could only be grateful to anyone who'd helped his father overcome that tearing grief.

"I wish I could have known her, thanked her." His sincerity was evident, and his gaze clear and untroubled as he met his father's anxious eyes.

Mark didn't seem convinced, worried that he'd missed the point.

"I should have been there for you," he repeated.

His father might have changed noticeably in the intervening span but, as the two images merged together again across the years, Steve noticed one unfailing constant, the love reflected in his eyes. He knew, with certainty, that his father had nothing for which to apologise.

"You've always been there for me," he insisted. "If once, a long time ago, you also needed time for yourself, there's nothing wrong with that."

Steve searched for the right words, willing to venture into deeper emotional water than usual to remove the uncertainty from his father's face. "Besides, in a strange way it actually helped." He puffed a deep sigh as he realised he'd just added confusion to the uncertainty.

He was no good at expressing these things, and his hands waved in the air as he tried to elaborate. "If you'd just shaken off Mom's death, it would have been worse, I wouldn't have known what to feel. The depth of your grief sort of gave me permission to grieve too." He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the intensity of emotions swirling around them, but grimly determined to finish. "You've never let me down, Dad, not once."

Mark's eyes were suspiciously bright and, in a transparent move to give them both space, he got up to prepare drinks for them both in the kitchen. When he came back, he was bearing two steaming cups of cocoa. "It's too late for coffee and this is more soporific."

Steve heaved himself into a sitting position, then accepted the cup.

"So," Mark said in bright tones. "_I_ have no more apologies to make." He paused expectantly, but Steve merely sipped his hot chocolate, nodding with deliberate obtuseness. He had no intention of voluntarily touching that can of worms, never mind opening it. Under the pretense of deep involvement in the enjoyment of his drink, he cast around for a way to seal the lid and bury it deep enough to be out of Mark's reach. In his mind's eye, he could see the writhing mass of worms each attempting to inch its way to the surface, but the fanciful image provided him with inspiration.

"You're right," Steve dropped his head, pretending defeat. "There is something we need to talk about." Then, just as Mark was assured of victory, he continued in quite a different tone as he launched his counter-offensive. "What were you _thinking? _Setting yourself up for Canin to snatch. I distinctly remember saying 'no bait', but what do you do? Dangle yourself on the end of the line, screaming 'take me'!"

He looked up in time to catch his father's expression crumple from anticipation to consternation. Evidently that lapse in self-preservation had slipped his mind. "I wouldn't exactly say I was the bait," he backpedaled abruptly, "more like the fishing rod itself, a sort of conduit between the hunter and hunted."

"Fishfood!"

Mark paused, thrown by the exclamation, not sure if it was a commentary on his attempt at self-exculpation or a further reference to his status as bait.

"I took every precaution," he stated virtuously.

"Precautions!" Steve snorted, thoroughly enjoying being able to take the high ground for once, and suppressing a grin at the feeling that he was channeling one of his father's better efforts. "Surrounding yourself with crooked cops who have a good reason to bump you off is not a precaution."

"I wouldn't exactly call..."

"And arranging to waltz off with a murderer!" Steve overrode his weak protest.

Here he overstepped the bounds of caution since it reminded Mark of the original point he'd been trying to make and he rallied strongly. "That wouldn't have been necessary if you hadn't got yourself kidnapped."

"You're changing the subject," Steve cut in hastily.

"Me change the subject! You changed it first."

"Did not."

"Did too!"

They each tried to hold on to their expressions of righteous indignation in the midst of this puerile exchange. Steve cracked first, giving way to the mirth bubbling up inside, and Mark soon followed.

"OK, truce," Mark allowed. "I won't walk into any more hostage situations if you agree not to indulge in any more heroic last stands."

They shook hands solemnly, eyes meeting in the understanding that they were toasting something more than the superficial agreement their banter had led to. It was the acknowledgement of a journey completed.

Mark didn't release Steve's hand, sliding his other arm around his son for a quick hug. "Come on, let this old man help you to bed."

Steve was sleeping in the guest room to spare his leg the exertion of stairs. "Old!" he snorted, allowing his father to pull him upright. "You're not old. Although now I know what you'll look like when you are. I think Lucas got it just right...except the teeth maybe."

"And the hair." Mark proudly patted his abundant white locks. "You on the other hand...well, I hate to tell you this, but baldness is usually inherited through the maternal line and your Grandpa Al - bald as a coot by the time he died."

"Wait a minute, you told me..."

"I lied."

"Are coots really bald?"

"Well, this one was. Would you prefer as bald as an eagle?"

"Now I know they're not really bald, merely an understated elegance on top. I could live with that."

"How about as bald as a baby's..."

"Dad!"

As they limped down the hall, it was easy to see that they leant on each other, a partnership of support that had helped them survive this diversion from their path. They had met adversity with a shared strength and a mutual trust and a deep abiding love that had brought them through - brought them home.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to all of you who've made it to the end of what proved to be a much longer story than I expected when I started. Enormous and tumultuous applause to Nonny for her heroic efforts in wading through each chapter and editing -- thank you, my friend. An especial and very grateful thanks to those who've reviewed. I loved reading your comments and in such replenishing feedback lie the seeds for future endeavours!


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